I keep asking for death but I keep waking up.
Sun hasn't shun in here.
Since I dragged the moon inside my room.
Rain never goes away and I've grown to love the beauty of pain.
I broke the glass and tore the window screen.
I'm standing on the edge staring down at dying, dead roses,
growing from the cracks of the concrete floor.
I keep trying to sell my soul but i can't find a client.
Come shove me over the edge.
Watch me float like a feather,
and kiss the pavement.
Save me, I feel so doomed.

I woke up in a dream,
from a dream,
where I dreamt I had died.
I felt free.
I was air.
I was water.
I had no body, no soul, & no mind.
I felt alive & then I woke up, feeling dead.

If I could dream of any dream at night.
What would I dream of?
I would dream of waking up after dying.
What a dream that would be.

I've been holding dear to the idea. That everything I hold dear doesn't last.

Finding meaning is like chasing a fugitive but what if meaning isn't to be found? What if meaning is to be made ?