If I were a book you would never get to the end
For the pages are too long and hard to understand...
Many people cut their wrist
and others cut their shoulders...
People always wonder
Why I write depressing things...
This is what it sounds like when doves cry
This is for the breaking hearts...
Unsure of what to feel
Unsure of who to trust...
I've been thinking that maybe I should leave
I don't even deserve fresh air to breathe...
Has she told you?
Her eyes don’t lie...
Waking in the morning
staring at the ceiling...
You run into your bedroom
And shut the door as you weep...
Something in the sky catches my eye.
A glimmering hope passes me by...
This is my depression
And it's where I was made...
My own aged guilt rises past me in agony
Feeding off my own blood sweat and tears...