Yes I am sick.
It comes from the night.
The pain comes from the drowsiness of nothing's alright.
I'd wish for quick release, I'm dying so slow.
Unless you are next to me, my face you don't know.
It wears a mask of the tired, an expression of cold.
A face saying, "yes, this is my emotional low".
Here my will does not break and my will does not fold,
and all I ask is that I die now if I die alone.
The beauty of the world is hidden in darkness and shallow.
The streets are lit with the windows with doings so foul.
Yes this is the poor, and here lives the shallows.
Who's responsible for this madness, shall they go to the gallows?
There's still so much to do, and so much to be done.
All under the span of the lights before the sun.
The stars are so quiet, they must be too shy.
Or maybe, just like me, they're waiting to die.