What, do you want me? What are you waiting?
I'm feeling destructive, and hopeless, and gone. I keep hoping the next person to ring the doorbell will ring it true and take me far far away. Time is always running out on me. Soon, she will return, and I will lose myself. Soon, these days of endless sunshine will end, and I shall go back to the first and last, to myself. No one will know me or own me or remember me and I will hope again for that eternal oblivion. White will be the favorite.
Desire is suffering, but I keep on desiring anyway. Don't you know, this too shall pass. People leave, people die, people are oblivious. Everyone will leave, for if they don't, then I will. (This is the way of the world, try not to be saddened by it.) And another thing: feelings are futile and words are combustible pieces of paper that I want to burn burn burn, even if they are all I have left to keep me.
Now I've done it. I've fallen and I don't want to get up. I'm not strong enough for this, and whatever faith I've had has always been so shaky.
Irony is waking up in the morning grinding my teeth. Irony is the hollow in my stomach. Irony is the onion smell of my sweat. I want an iron beam against my skull.
I knew this was going to happen. I knew it, but I didn't do a thing to try and stop it. I love this pain. I love this waiting. I have to love it. This guilty pleasure is all I'm ever going to get out of this.
Desire is suffering, but I keep on desiring anyway. Don't you know, this too shall pass. People leave, people die, people are oblivious. Everyone will leave, for if they don't, then I will. (This is the way of the world, try not to be saddened by it.) And another thing: feelings are futile and words are combustible pieces of paper that I want to burn burn burn, even if they are all I have left to keep me.
Now I've done it. I've fallen and I don't want to get up. I'm not strong enough for this, and whatever faith I've had has always been so shaky.
Irony is waking up in the morning grinding my teeth. Irony is the hollow in my stomach. Irony is the onion smell of my sweat. I want an iron beam against my skull.
I knew this was going to happen. I knew it, but I didn't do a thing to try and stop it. I love this pain. I love this waiting. I have to love it. This guilty pleasure is all I'm ever going to get out of this.