I turned all of my dreams off, but i've still got a ways to go. The images that keep me in the purgatory of sleep, feel like this great sadness that can be downed out only with pills. Longing for the days that will never come, I let them soak into my mind to quite the laughing life that seems to be some sort of sick cosmic joke.
all I wanted was happy
inside, i'm sick. the corpse rotting from not long ago. As i lie here contemplating the belief that we're all becoming something more. What does that mean, is it some half truthful lie spat into our minds that all we do is going to be meaningful the idea that we are going to become something greater, something more. All the children who thought that they were going to become president.
Nobody wants to hear the truth of all you'll amount to is most likely mediocre. Who grows up with the notion in their head that one day their life, unlike the television shows will be horribly askew, sleep is the only remedy to this great silence that's been building inside. Not even a slightly consistent wash of faces throughout life, all babbling what they think of worth the thought can get rid of this,
silence.
It's like it's trapped inside, and time doesn't heal memories. They pile on top of each other trying to blur the feelings that seemed to painfully alive at the time, they're still there. Just grown tired of being so loud and angry, like the scars on my hands from touching you.
I wasn't falling
Yet it seems that all my life I am constantly losing things, the people I love. The things that I once believed that I had some sort of admiration for, I still save bugs when it rains but not the hurt on my arms. Lost a thousand times over sleeping on the bathroom floor to hide from monsters, who are really people, that we choose to forgive. I think I miss my mind the most. Now who I am, who I was, seems to be an image cut out of static.
Never quite sticking to one form.
My life is filled with boxes of nothing, and god how I long for something solid that I won't ever allow to come.
