All of the things I proclaim to detest
Grow in seeming proportion
To the fatigue that grips my soul
As I finger the blade.
Is there anyone real with whom to talk
About these things so hard to describe
Someone who has been here and knows
And not some pretty face in a box.
I desire so much of its simplicity
That the yearning becomes too much
And I forsake today with tomorrow’s despair
While love becomes confusion.
Stupidly I await a silent reprieve
From all of this that is me
While the land spins out of control
And I sit here losing my fucking mind.
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