On a street lined with trees
  I feel my brain's been impaled,
  and all of my dreams
are cold and dead as old nails.
But through all the pain,
  through the whispering loss,
  I'm alive, but I'm stained
like some man on a cross.
I just want to see -
  for a second or a year -
  if there's a chance I could be
  better than who is here,
  looking back through the glass,
  encouraging sadness,
  living in the past
  and drowning in the madness
  that comes with realizing
he's the mistake.