A dreary little nightmare
On the outside is a dream
But the only time there is peace
Is when I'm fast asleep.

Now that piece is shattered
Because this dreary little nightmare keeps waking me.
My roses, my sunlight, my flowers, my trees, withered away and died with me.
No mater how much they are watered with amphetamines, resurrection is not enough.

My nightmare has very small daydreams that die as quickly as they come to spring.
My gardens are trampled on by idiotic teens.
And no matter how much I try not  to feel lonely.
I'm in a dead garden, and there's only just me.  

But the raincloud ahead could bring joy to my fettered limbs.
But it's over eight seasons of dryness before.
By then I may be too dried up to grow.
This is my nightmare, this is my time, this is my trial, but I don't know for what crime.

So maybe in the darkest dawn when I see a rose bud grow
Ill pick it, but not hit its thorns
Paint my spirit with the joys of a new season.
But my nightmare has only just begun.


I have a long way to go.