never really talk about what keeps me up at night
and when i do i repeat to myself it's alright
its funny to think when people see me they say
how talented and special and great all the way
i say i have work and that there's plenty to do
that's real i'm so busy but really it's only half true
the other half is this; if only you knew
if they peeled at my skin how they'd find only blue
this close to the end, this close to the crash
the color of smoke and the color of ash
it's crazy to think i'm okay when they ask
the enthusiastic smile on my face is not just a mask
and it's true when i say it it's not just a lie
one moment i'm laughing next second i cry

and it seems everyone's got the answers to everything i feel
good then i'll try this one, see if i get now fixed for real
get a new hobby, stop listening to all the sad songs
stop bathing in my sadness its unhealthy and wrong
stop being so stubborn stop laughing so loud
stop being outspoken and crazy and proud
i'm half a genius, it's half a weakness
one part too heavy the other is bleakness
and i never never stay quiet about any secrets
i spill it all without thought then i pick up the pieces
needless to say i'm a big fan of realness
ask and i'll tell you who's got me so sleepless
i can't help it i swear i want to get better
i don't want this to go on another second, not ever

its so scary to say things out loud and in words
set them all free from the cage like some birds
admit about anger, self inflicted, suicidal thoughts
panic attacks and self loathing, my stomach is knots
words linger empty i see it in their face
it scares them but not enough to step in my place
when the gloom and the fear i carry around in my belly
is scarier than you think, it gets so **** heavy
they all say they get it i'm skeptical at best
not enough to say it out loud or get it off my chest
no idea who to turn to or with who to talk
rather keep it in, say nothing, and safe with a lock
still I reach for everyone cause i'm lonely its crazy
and the days go by so clouded and broken and hazy

its funny to think on the outside it seems i do fine
only melancholy, if they knew i was running out of time
writing all these poems repeating myself over and over
i write it all down cause i'm looking for closure
throwing out these papers as i fall into the abyss
scratch with the nails my only pleasure is this
how does no one notice i'm this close to going?
am i really so good at hiding is it really not showing?
pastel pink on the outside that's all that they know
but it's getting dark in here and everyday its so cold
i hide myself somewhere i can feel i'm alone