Leave the departed be.
Let them go and be free.
They shall sail for shore
and mark their rock with stone.
Raise your compass and follow
north, south, east, west,
wherever,
just go with the arrow.
Leave the departed be.
Don't hold them back.
Don't let them speak.
Just let go.
Be free.
To the departed who need to be let free.
Just be.
Sail for your shore.
Claim your stake.
Don't turn around for more.

Dangle me in front of your lads.
This is what you won't understand.
Tu es un petit garcon.
Tu es bete et tu es bete.
Tu ris a moi.
Tu me ris.
Mais tu ne parles pas francais.
Donc, tu es la blague.
Auch, du sprichst nicht Deutsche.
Du bist scheisse.
You make me angry.
Dont' come into my room and insult me.
Let's see how you like it,
Petit Garcon.

Ich verstehe,
ich verstehe.
Je sais que mon coeur ne sait pas les emotions.
Mais, je pense que mon coeur comprend les emotions.
Peut-etre c'est fausse.
C'est juste une illusion.
Peut-etre c'est vrai.
Ou peut-etre ni vrai ni fausse.
C'est tout.
Je pense que mon coeur peut comprendre.
Et moi?
Und mir?
Ich verstehe,
ich verstehe.

Let's say I went to the bar to drink.
Then got drunk.
Let's say I went to the pool to swim.
Then swam.
Let's say I went to the bed to sink.
Then I sunk.
Sunk into my head.
The sheets.
And I ask why?
Why do I have a window to stare at?
For there to be blinds covering it and a house blocking the view.
Why do I spin circles and circles dodging the pain in my head like the ceiling fan?
Most of all, why--
for the love of God--
when I close my eyes
is it only for a short while?
Could it not be a little longer?
A little escape?
Instead, you fill my head with lies,
false hopes.
It's not nightmares--
it's worse.

To hell with what they say.
"He knows how to manage it on his own."
Maybe I talk so I hide everything else away.
Is he really better off on his own?
What I speak has no substance anyway.
Haven't you ever felt that?
Accuse me of being lazy.
Go ahead, point your fingers.
I would yell back but,
I have lost all my energy.
I throw my pillows, punch them--
I face the wall, punch it--
I take my finger gun, shoot it--
everything in sight and then--
point it to my head.
**** it back.
Close my eyes.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Click.
It's empty. Aren't we all?
I live to see another day.
Carpe diem.

Oh, how I'd love to go out for a smoke.
Stare off into the distance, lonely, wallowing in self-pity.
I can't decide if I want to be holding a Cuban cigar or a skinny Camel.
What do I want for the day?
Oh, how I'd love to go out for a drink.
Feel like royalty sitting on my throne, surrounded by strangers who don't care.
Wallowing in self-pity.
I can't decide if I want an old-=fashioned or Aviation.
What do I want for the night?
Oh, how I'd love to go out for a walk.
Is it so hard to ask?
I can't decide if I want to be a criminal or a killer.
I messed up, wallowing in self-pity.
What do I want for life?

I'm stuck under a pool of water
and a sea of tears
and an ocean of sadness
and a lake of depression
and a shore of low-points
and a cliff of close-ends
and a grass of no greens
and a land of no one
and a tree of no oxygen
and a sky of no sun
and an air of no life.
I can't breathe.
I'm drowning.
Frankly, it's all shallow.
Swallow me whole, Mr. Pill.