the ceiling's low
the air is still
you can never make a mistake like this.

the ceiling's low
the walls scream out
and the sound was never heard by anyone.

the ceiling's low
mind your head now
there isn't a door in sight.
nothing to do except to curl up
in a ball too tight.
the ceiling's too low
voices scream in my mind
i have to lie on the floor
with a smile.
am i insane?
or am i alright?
'Cause the ceiling's moving down
tonight. **(c)

his fear
of the rules has left him torn between
freedom,

and a life of sorrow's song. **(c)

I can't bear to explain the
words that might be better left unsaid
trapped in my throat, with a few
letters hanging from my lips like the dark blue
clouds in my mind burning my fingertips
whenever they graze your skin.

Can we just watch the
light from the sun disappear?
can we lie on the roof and gaze at the stars?
can we not leave out anything unsaid
for one night?
Hopefully, these thoughts will
echo past your eyes, dripping with dreadful
shards of my mind. **(c)

you strummed the strings of my heart
like a guitar
but I sang along nonetheless
while you enjoyed my beautiful
cries of pain, emitting from the strings
able to cut through glass,
but not your fingers
that held my heart. **(c)

The wind howled dirges around the cemetery
spreading the sorrow of my heart
until I'm empty inside
except for the numbness in my veins
in my chest
in my fingertips
without your hand to wrap around mine
to warm the icy patches and lines
I only felt the gaze of a wilting daisy
in the bare patches of dead grass
swaying in the wind
with a fallen daisy at its side
an illusion of a cracked smile;
not showing the lost, young girl any pity
for it needs to feel sorry for its
own dead flower
whose petals were scattered in the wind
across the grey graves
in this evening light. **(c)

The patches of autumn colors
engraved on the land
outweighing the brown soil like
an anchor sinking deep
every soul losing its will to survive
as it dries up into the color of the earth
the smell of the apricots and dried leaves, old vintage keys
rises up like grey smoke from the chimney
in a futile attempt to grab safety and
hold it in its sinewy hands
hoping that it would save them
from the beginning of the end. **(c)