I get bad days,
when knives seem soft,
and roses dissapear.

Take me to your garden,
tell me all your troubles,
because they're all nice and simple,
they make me forget mine.

Take me to your garden,
Cut me with your thorns,
So I can see some colour,
and forget the emptiness I feel.

Take me to your garden,
let me die there,
because I'd rather fade away,
than face the outside world.