I'm tired of talking, pouring out my soul
forced to defend what's going on inside my brain...
As more voices intruded
poked then prodded...
A thief stole the room's
atmosphere the day I heard...
Black skies are
my solitude...
She existed only in the imagination,
Of the one hundred thousand dead...
I hear laughter
and it makes me cringe...
Music pulls tightly at my soul
follows me out as I stroll...
Panic attacks on the road
to recovery...
-
we fell...
Maybe war is what made you this
heartless...
"In the Caribbean, almost
everyone is a bastard child"...
10:15 PM -
There's no sweet sixteen or forever twenty-one...