This is what it means to be
A product of inhuman ingenuity
I'm not creative because I let my brain spill from the palm
Leaving a note in screaming whispers
Just to disturb the calm
We all hide under the monsters that live in our bed
You try to talk through to them
But no response is a silent gun aimed towards the head

The world just keeps on dancing when I silence my own song
A spoon full of my own personal sugar makes it seem better
But on the inside it's a new shade of wrong
Staying numb somewhere down the line of feeling
Kneeling to the window of opportunity blocked by another buildings ceiling

It's time to walk through these walls.