Saints and pychos are not born,
but created
by a world without meaning
where nothing at all is sacred.

I have no plans.
I've lost my sense of self.
I'm on the edge something dark.
I don't think
I can be helped.

I always wanted to make the world a better place.
But I'm not used to getting what I want.
The world has kicked me
in the face.
And a growing hatred starts to haunt.

I don't know what's coming
but it doesn't look good.
Something terrible grows inside me.
Keep your distance, I think you should.

It's not in loneliness.
There are many like him

It's not in not having
for whatever he has
means nothing.

It's not in despair
for it is pain
that means he's living.

It's not in facing
his utter purposelessness
and cherishing it,
because that's all he has.

It's not in recognising
his own meaninglessness
and finding meaning,
because that's all he knows.

It's in moments of brief escape,
in tiny deaths
in dreams
and waking dreams,
where he is awake.

It's in seeing
the others
and knowing they weren't made the same.
They were made perfect,
unable to question their existence:
to not know such pain.

It's in his utter contempt
for his fellow man;
His blind hatred
for all living beings.

It's in a world
in flames
and falling apart
where he finds peace.

Prowling the earth
sparing nothing.
Only a cruel God
could've made
such a sorry beast.

And the beast stares into himself
and coldly confronts his own emptiness
He does not know why.
Agony to be awake.
To live is to die.

That's the pain of being human.
Cast down into the chaos of history.
To be born and to die, for nothing
it seems.
And to go on, without question;
without knowing
what it means.

Maybe if you weren't alone tonight,
you wouldn't feel so empty;
and you just might
think that it's pointless now,
and it looks that way
with the words you sent me.
I want to help
but I'm not sure how.

But maybe if I could hold you
just once:
you might not feel so small,
for once.
Or perhaps you'd feel
nothing at all
and believe me
that's not what I want.
I hate it when history repeats.
And I hate the feeling of being cold
while under bed sheets.
So let me make it warm again.
Let me try
to ease the pain.

I wish I could make
those bad thoughts go away.
And I wish I could hold you strongly
in my arms,
someday.
And that I could feel you
wrapped around me, too:
And I wish I could make it all okay.
And I wish
you wouldn't go.
I wish you would stay.
Darlin'
*Please stay

In a room full of people,
yet you feel alone.

Always in the house,
but you never feel at home.

The one you dream of
doesn't know you're there.

And you care too much,
when nobody seems to care.

You are sitting still
but your mind is racing.

Your face seems calm
but you heart is pacing.

You are alive,
but feel so dead.

You exist in the world,
but only live inside your head.

Do me a favour:
And get out of my head.
I'm sick of your memory.
Of you,
and all the things you said.