Curl Up and Die

you.
Nothing seems to matter anymore. No, it's all gone.

The sadness never leaves but only grows.
And it keeps you caged. And it keeps you locked up,
And it keeps you afraid.
Nothing seems to matter anymore. No, it's fucking gone.

But maybe I'm the one to blame. So bring on the sleep, take my name.

Come on. We're waving the white flag. Come on. We're calling in sick.
I don't want to be a part of anything that ever feels like this.


2. If This Band Thing Doesn't Pan Out, We're Joining The Army

For all the girls that have interest in me.
Please forget me. Just go home. I'm breaking bones
Over roaming free, empty, and with nowhere to go.
Who wants a boy sad and hurt from you missing your call back?
I am not wanted when you are not around. I hate myself and I
can't help it. Because I don't know how to call it a night, I love you
and can't help it.

I walk to have a hold on this. Someone please help me.

I walk along silent roads trying to figure out how to figure this all
out. Those times of trying too hard to have it all under control, all
understood, where nothing makes any sense. I am the ghost
lingering on behind in time past, and there's nothing for me.

I want to have a hold on this. Someone please help me.

(These are quick romances that are adding up kills.)


3. .. - ... .- ..-. ..- -.-. -.- .. -. --. - .. -- . -- .- -.-. .... .. -. .

Sick of being sick and sucking the disease.
A longing for longer than just temporary, because it's
contaminating.
And I want to tell the truth...I'm not doing so well. How do I
save myself?
It feels like I'm lost in the climate of lonely apartment life.

This way, I can't be who you want to be.
And this way, I can't be who I really am. But I am trying.

(Deal with what you have and what you'll have left, because
there is no such thing as fresh start.)

I am no good at being around. I am no good at being alive.
But I am trying.


4. God Is In His Heaven, All Is Right With The World

1) Sedation is not meditation. That's isn't what substitutes for conversation.
And who is wrong over holes burning into their heads or bloated sacks shifting in
their stomachs?

Over feeling unloved, worn out and with nothing?

2) The decomposing human bodies moving in a vibrant language. Sending signals
in unfortunate ways, (through unstable tones.)

Just enough to kow that there is no recovery. How can I even compare? (I'm hiding
out. Shaving my head. I'm screening calls. Covering my tracks.)

I want to form some sort of expression. I want to make some sense out of this.
Without calculating the collective, I want to know everything.

Sometimes I don't want to scream and sometimes I don't want to be around here.
Sometimes I just want to pilot a giant robot, spending days that only exist in my head.

Instead of excuses I will be looking for reasons,
Finding passion in my own instead of convenience.