Beginning to sing, some eyes upon the floor,
their voices do bring long lies to my front door,
lies that I never left far enough behind
to lose them from my mind.

Never have I left those stages of early life,
the times bereft of phage and surly strife,
yet feelings of disorder always envelope
my musings. I'm older but can't grow up.

Singing and dressing for you is what I know,
and it's depressing when I can't let go
of the memories I'll never live again,
so I sort and file desire in a bin.

In waste basket of a room I exist,
such a tragic jacket does persist
to tie my arms at my waist.
My life is such a waste.

It's all my fault.
I can't accept fate.
Bits I'll certainly plate,
but subsist on the malt.
Drowning in insanity,
Reeling in reality,
I break down every evening,
and leak out weary screaming.