My love for living is nothing but Titanic
a sinking ship;
down to the end of it's relationship.

Come to terms with the realization that is life,
if I die tonight would I make it to Heaven.
Perhaps you think I'm so alive, yet I've been dead since I was seven.

Everyday feels closer to the very end, I've feared no Armageddon
Like the young seeking only pleasure,
seeking such desires in the shortest of measures.

What is living.

What is purpose upon knowing who you are,
and therefore who are you if you're only known by nobody
What is living for yourself if we're constantly trying to live for somebody.

What is living.

Like a distant memory less focused on the past,
how far have we come
And in comparison to the past,
what's left for any of us.

What is living.

A closed hand question,
but not on the grip of things,
while thinking upon on all we've once held
So then it seems,
man only seeks to keep hold onto all their dreams.

What is living.

The days right now are foreshadowing the days ahead,
the months before;
as the years have gone away
To compliment the gesture is yet another day.

Then again what is a day if not lived to fullest
what's the question of living amongst the dumb ones and the clueless.

We're the only one's stupid enough to keep poking at the notion,
abusing the idea of living;
and seeking out our own torture.

Truly what is this living.

At the peak of the very tip falling off to the edge
a graceful fall into the shadowy hole of self longing
The time is rising still as the days are dawning.

Crawling out of the black pit we've buried ourselves in,
the grave we've set.
Gravely do you ever think of the mess you're in.

Perhaps no,
but no to the notion of thinking it's the end.

What is this living.

Living in the world that can't live with us,
a world we **** and still beg for it's trust.
What is the hope for us.

What then are we living for.

Living once and to the very last,
what is the hope for us.