I see a glimmer, nothing but blurry edges. I see a way out, but I cannot take it.
And there I am, head bowed, praying on my knees at the white ceramic altar, sacred, pledged to keep within the soul at least, the headache will tell if I did.
First and last of my kind/ proud and pointless. The confession of a madman/ sincere and unheard. A dusty puppet handled by the ghosts.
We're all tightrope walkers above our personal ravine will i fall? am I falling yet? so thanks for this defective wings I have. will I fall? Am i falling yet? so thanks for this defective wings I have.
We all have an own pain therapy, no exceptions. You're not different enough to judge. You're none to judge.
I'll find fake and temporary relief, just to sink again. And like the tide, I'll swing and balance, for the same reason of being. As the tide.