The pain of the unshed tears well up in my brain
and im just starting to think i'm insane

Press the depressed upon my sighs
and sooth me with your smouldering eyes.
We are not here for purpose left unfed...
The purpose feeds upon the coming dead!
And oft we think our holy thoughts,
The pain of sin, our breath is caught!

They think we think they know us,
Assumptions press and depress
I protest: This is not what it is,
This is what it seems to be!
To be is not what it seems, but what is real...
Dry your eyes on the street of fantasy.