Today I realised my purpose of being -
I'm aging and waiting for the end of my living.
As each second passes another is lost,
for losing our seconds is our lives given cost.
You'll never feel, never see, never know this again;
this being now - and now - also then:
This is something we know, but ignored for it hurts.
But we can not forget - in memory it lurks.
Wait, no.
If the seconds are cost then what are we buying?
Is there no return that's not hurting or crying?
Have I forgotten the love, the joy in-between?
For each second pain is there not second dream?
I beg for a new eye, a new world to re-live in,
a new place with new laws and new people to believe in.
In this new world I'd be happy and free,
I'd be loved and love, I'd be lucky... not me.
No, I wouldn't be me, not in this world, anyway.
I'd be banished and gone, no new people, no betray.
I've ruined a world, but only the one,
or I've ruined my world, destroyed all the fun.
There's no more sins for me to adore,
they've all been spent leaving brilliant sore.
See I'm aging and waiting, and hurting and crying,
with the seconds I'm spending it must be this that I'm buying.
A blessèd reality, a trap painted gold,
manufactured promises with chances we've sold.
Sold for the seconds that I mentioned before,
the seconds we're spending on that brilliant sore.
*(Oh I really shouldn't think, I think way too much,
I see what this is, the world and the such.
Some people label it, call it depression,
I call it truth, just a big painful lesson.)