I sit here naked, cigarette in hand
Dreams of forming the perfect band
Think about writing the perfect song
Wondering exactly where I went wrong
Bipolar emotions have become a friend
Will they still be there when it comes to an end?
My heart isn't stone, I can hear it cry
I try to do well, I try, I really try
The second hand labours, dot to dot
Watching the hourglass, I sit and rot
Electronic comfort keeping me sane
My digital filter for analogue pain
I could have everything or anything I desire
Instead I fester at the end of a wire
Is this it for me until I eventually die?
I try to do well, I try, I really try
I stare at this screen for a glimmer of hope
Maybe it will give me just enough rope
Perhaps I should go outside for a bit
I've heard that out there it's slightly less shit
The fresh air and sun could be good for my mind
But with hurt tinted specs I'm as good as blind
Occasional hope but I'm wondering why
I try to do well, I try, I really try
Comments [1]