Enter Stage Left the Pianoman
watch him sit, tails flowing and hands ready
Enter with adoring eyes
The crowds of people here to see his demise
little do they know of the pianist's plan
to leave them all speechless
as his  hands land
not on the piano
but on the gun he so carefully slid under the bench
for a long time now Mr. Pianoman
could only think of One thing
One escape from the daemons he hears
at Night when he rests his head.
Enter Stage Left a Walking, Living Deadman.
Enter with adoring eyes the funeral procession to the Pianoman's demise.

I want you to tell me you love me but I know you won't I texted you drunk because I know it's the only time I can talk to you these days I miss you because we've both changed so much it's like we don't even know each other and you said we have more in common than you and my brother ever did and that's so ******* depressing because you two were best friends and I loved it when you two were friends because we could hang out and I could leave whenever I wanted and I miss that but you hardly talk anymore and it's been seven ******* years and now is when you decide to part ways but it's been too long and I miss you and I'm sorry I'm being so emotional I'm sorry I can only talk to you when I'm drunk but that's the only time I'm brave enough to be honest with you and I want to kiss you I'm sorry but I do I want you to hold me like you used to when we didn't know any better because your hands were so warm and I am so ******* cold and I miss you and I'm drunk and I miss you and when I'm sober I hate you but it's only because you don't love me like I want you to

the art of Pretending is simply in the endings of your words.
How you show them "who you are"
How you show them "where you've been"
the Fake Facets and ridiculous Effects
to the adornment of your "Friends"
who could care less if you sank or swam
but instead found their multi-conceptual reasons to "Love" you as you "are" with them.
show them who YOU are and do they all stay?
Or do they walk away and say that they don't know You anymore.
so you see the art of Pretending
Is simply in the endings of your words
How you put "yourself" out there
How you put "your life" together
on the pages of someone else's story
and how you relieve your days to people
who have spent their whole lives Pretending

Some days I look at the ceiling.
Lay on my floor and stare at everything.
The eggshell paint chips and how they linger.
The circle where I once threw pudding up in the air with Her.
I ask it why it's so constraining,
Why everything it does makes me feel like it's raining.
Why I can't take off like the birds
And just fly free instead of living with the herd.
But flight is impossible when you have a ceiling,
mental or not it's still built like a never ending grieving.
For someone you lost,
for someone you hate,
for those people that make you insane.
Living for the future works exactly like a main
Pip bursting with water
Killing the things surrounding it farther.
This ceiling is drowning me,
Metaphorically asphyxiating the
Airflow of my thoughts
Creating a lack of creativity.
I have to destroy this ceiling,
And free myself from aboriginality.
The bereavement of society,
Is it's abhorring nature toward creativity.