I've never given much thought
To an afterlife
If it's as empty as life itself
I'm not sure there's even a point
If it's as painful as the loneliness
I've endured for you
I don't think I care to see it
I'm better off slowly killing myself
I've never given much thought
To the dreams we dream
As the air escapes our lungs
And as our heartbeat finally stops
But if I dream of us together
The way I always wanted us to be
Then maybe it's time to close my eyes
And never lift their weights again

someone once told me
pain is like water;
you need a little
to know you're alive,
but too much
will drown you.
and now I think
isn't it funny
how the things we do
to feel alive
are the things
that can **** us?
i suppose
it's because
we just want to feel
**something

If I sit on my roof
and block out the light from my house,
I can forget that I exist.
I can swim among the constellations
and lose myself in the bittersweet triviality
of our existence.
I can break free from the intoxication
of my life wasted on autopilot.
I can pretend that I am merely thoughts,
free of the weight of a life
and of society
and of reality.
I can question things
and depersonalize
and forget this anchor of a body
and all its bitter consequences.
But,
for now,
all I can do
is lay beneath the stars
and forget.

It's the feeling
That hollows out your bones
And makes you feel,
Like the slightest tap tap against your limbs
Will make you shatter.

Your name still lingers at my lips.
Your skin still lingers at my fingers.
You're still present in me.

It's the heaviness in your soul
That makes your heart feel
Like the slightest mishap
Will break you completely.

Your words still linger in my ears.
Your promises still linger in my heart.
You're still present
In me.

I feel like I should be excited,
Or at the very least a bit sad,
My heart should be ignited,
My thoughts driving me mad.

Instead there's silence in my mind,
It's another ordinary day,
Though now I have new friends to find,
As we drive our car away.

They told me here my life would start,
Where experiences make us old,
Passions and people will shape my heart,
My story is waiting to be told.

Yet my story came long before,
It did not begin in hallowed halls,
And for some reason I thought it'd be more,
Instead of rising my heart falls.