If you looked into my eyes and knew how bright they used to be, you knew I died.
As I write my words are dying now with me.
My body doesn't like it when I try to get ready.
Just sitting isn't ok either.

I just eat, fly and sing or sleep if I can.
Cause only then life doesn't feel so bad.
Like being on fire, heavy or drowning.
My body is a bag of potatoes on fire.
I'm so dead, I'm not moving.

Let me just stare in the distance.
And if you looked into my eyes, you'd know I died.
I'm buried inside.
Strangled and tight.
Gone but stuck.

Away from life.
Away from light.
Colours fly around me in my dark room.
I fall to the ground.
I lie there just still.