All they say is what they see,
because behind closed doors they never listen.
On rarity they do,
they only hear their self-remarks.
Honesty is virtue,
only if it doesn't burn.
But when they do find it soothing to say,
it only tears like metal to bare skin.
It's not that they are blind,
nor be it that they don't mind.
It's the lack of effort.
It pins to us like a bug to a wall.
It clumps into a fire below,
and becomes something close to hell.
You can't hate them,
for what you have become says hate isn't inside you.
There is no room for hate in you,
when there is no room for love in them.
We try real hard to get where we are,
and I think we've gotten pretty far.
Only a few more miles,
in the endless abyss,
before we get soaked in sweet,
tender,
darkness.
Times are getting harder,
and swelling up with air.
People continue to pretend they are prying,
simply to get under your skin.
They can't seem to truly care enough,
to end our war of heart and mind.
So we can hide in this dark,
cold room.
Don't worry,
no one will open the door.
They can't even hear us scream, "Please wake me."
They think we're screaming for more.