Twist and contort my voice into something unrecognizable,
So I can feel something other than my own self-destruction.
A fortnight or two until I'm totally blue,
Water cast to fire just to satiate his primal desire.

I've got not much to walk for,
Nothing to run for,
Nothing to scream for,
It's all just a chore.

Carry me down my own obsidian path,
Leave you barefoot to slip and bleed.
Only then you'll see what it feels to be me,
Maybe then you'll hold me closer and tighter than before.

I've got not much to walk for,
Nothing to run for,
Nothing to scream for,
It's all just a chore.

Let me watch the sun drown in the shimmering lake,
Why do you always block the beautiful view?
Doesn't it make sense that I have stopped respecting you,
For all that you do, For all that you say,
How is it any stretch to feel so enraged.