I find ways to jump start my heart,
as it hasn't been the same since you've torn it apart.
Meryl Streep wins the Oscars, but it's I that presents,
making a comedy out of a life of torment.
I've been at the end of my rope for so very long,
that I've tied multiple knots to test if it's strong.
I ended up with burned palms and scratched off fingertips,
I now have an excuse as to why I can't get a grip.

Now a days I question if I've become a mute, or if I just have nothing to say.
I wear disaster like a tailored suit, that on my bed every morning you lay.
Pick out the best tie, to match my eyes, to choke and strangle my life away,
and shine the shoes, that kick to bruise, but never lead my form to stray.

Keep the blades away from my hands, I want to slice off my ears,
not like Van Gogh's beautiful stand, just tired of annoyances I hear.
I'm sorry that my misery in these pages can't be scrubbed clean, they just will not doff.
Face to face, you'd think me on the Silver Screen, I guess those acting classes paid off.

A schizophrenic lullaby, a portrait that beauty paints with a lie.
A lonely, clear blue peaceful sky, constantly raining beyond the naked eye.
A confusing truth at very best, pushing sweet words down with the rest.
An undeserving, agonizing test, to determine if I'm worth room in your chest