I feel like a floater:
I find a different life every year
Euphoria is a thing of the past
An archaic dissent into madness

"The words I write are cheap and trite"
I bury my demons, but they come out at night
I can't escape from the words in my mouth:
Or, the vexation stuck in my soul

I hear the music between my heartstrings:
But, do not know how to portray [it]
My reflection has mocked me for years
I don't feel most of anything

My conscience has taken an extended vacation
I called them, but they passed out on the couch
Dreaming has passed my past
I can barely remember...