It's sad how, the only reason I haven't killed myself yet, is that I don't want to hurt anyone, but the reason I want to **** myself, is that I get hurt by everyone.

I am melancholy itself.

I am a creature unable to find rest.

My faith has been asphyxiated,

My soul obliterated,

My body destroyed.

My mind has stopped existing.

This doesn't look like home.

I am hollow.

And in this moment I am nothing but a vast echo who once existed in an indistinct memory.

The road is reflecting the noise of our cars a thousand times.

The leaves are crying out in a whirlwind of emotion.

The flowers are withering from the ice of a cold heart.

My demons are escaping from all the openings I secured.

It's darkening.

Everything I built is breaking apart.
Nothing but my memories remain.

I'm a walking shell, a soulless corpse.
I have no dreams, no future.
No hope, no faith.

This is the end.

I'm giving in.

And then I found out how hard it is to really change.

Even hell can get comfy once you've settled in.

I just wanted the numb inside me to leave.

No matter how ****** you get, the sun will return and you come back down.

The funny thing is all I ever wanted I already had.

There's glimpses of heaven in everyday.

In the friends I have, the music I make, the love that I feel.

I just had to start again.