I'm running out of things to say
to the lady I pay by the day
to tell me how my life has gone to ****
to tell me, however, I should not quit.
I'm running out of ways to write
that I cannot stand the sight
of my eyes looking back into mine
the knots in the mirror when I stare at my spine.
I'm running out of ways to feel
the urge and need to ****
so I figured I ought to love instead
but all that disappoint got to my head.
I'm running out of trust to give
such a fact prevents my want to live
I wish more than anything
to feel at home again.