Awake and faking bouts of grandeur just to keep me alive.
I've never seemed so out of touch with living colors,
as I fade back to white by tonight.
Sympathy is wasted on me.
It’s not like I don’t know.
Bury me with the contents of the sea.
It’s not like I don’t know.
Explorations proving nothing have drove me insane.
I’d wish to be a spark of happiness to strangers,
but I’d rather be home, on my own.
Reading all but the fiction
wouldn't get you far.
You have to know what you’re missing,
just to see who you are.
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