they call me many different things
the people... & the outside ones
i must break free from all of this
i SCREEEEAAAAM! i cry, i die each time.. inside.
can you see me? do you hear? who is not getting through?
a death walk, a dead dream and nightmarish memories
follow me where i go
i hear a lunatic calm
of one thousand voices telling me...
warning me...
and it feeds
what to feel
what is real
i wished to fly so high
but they stole my blackened wings
fly by night
by ancient moonlight
to a bitter cove
soon isolating me..
from this wretched dream
writers block. as usual. this is the SHIT, the product of what was intended to be... something real, something you can feel. however, it is only shit. i give. im going to buy some paint supplies. maybe ill do better there. |
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