The door in the attic is peculiar
Sometimes I am lucky enough to find it cold
And I will stumble inside and fall
Far away from here
It's like a dream, a new life
You must look around and above you
And then you will see it
Above, up there, high, far away
There it was, I saw the hole
Through my fluttering eyelids it was always grey
But when I say so
Mother starts to weep uncontrollably
From here I can only sit and watch and ponder
Where it starts and where it ends
And if there is a castle of wonder
I'd like to see it one day
Even if I am old and empty
And I have lived forever
Even if I am all bones and dust and dead
But I'm still alive and my pulse is fascinating
I stand up and run, maybe if I run fast enough
I will start to fly
Yet all that comes of it is a dizzy heart and burning eyes
Sometimes, the Big Grey will ask me,
"What are you searching for?"
I don't know yet, I just want to see past the shadow
What is it like, where dreams are told,
Where dreams are sold?
On the days that she sits me down
And tells me what's real and what's not real
I wish I could give Mother a dream too
Because the lines on her face make her look so tired
And that's when they start fluttering again
Open. Close. Open. Close. Open. Close.
Open.
When will I know what dreams are like?

My hands hurt, my hands tremble
My hands itch, my hands scratch
My hands drag, my hands drag
My hands push, my hands shove
My hands bend, my hands break
My hands scream, my hands implore
My hands are cut off under the gleam of the midnight oil
My hands are cold, my hands are still

I will never see them again.

I am a lighthouse
My light shines you ashore
Away from the boulders  
When you can’t see Anymore

I am a lighthouse
I guide you through the storm
But when I am used
I am not wanted anymore

I am your lighthouse
But still I am alone
My purpose is solely
To guide you back home

Expectation of finding reflection
in your life,
How do so when all around are broken mirrors,
much like I am
A fragile frame of glass.

Jumping off the edge of life,
still haven't met the bottom,
Just floating along in the air.

As a lot I say to sadness,
only giving me a headache to the moon,
I just need my space,
still I love to rush into it,
but I'm not down to the race.

For this could be the anti, anti
of my anti source of feeling
An anti, anti feeling to how I'm secretly
bleeding out of the face.

It's all made me feel worthless,
as the piece of trash in this world.
I'm such a waste,
wasting away on so many negative feelings,
A subtraction of life within me.

All are little broken pieces,
just too tiny for you to really see them.

Normally, I am crazy about you,
But how can you laugh at all this comedy?