There's a bitter sort of beautiful,
in this recklessness.
Where the plunging river of fear,
finds its drought.
Nothing matters to your head,
nothing matters to your heart,
but it's the thirst in your soul,
that makes you whole.
It's the frigid midnight cold that keeps you bare,
It's the salty ocean water rising over your head,
that bittersweet numbness that let's you know,
You're not dead.