I lose myself to the black bedroom
That I dread will one day
Very well be my resting place
And oh, I wonder:
Why isn't it a garden of roses?
Isn't that what I so righteously deserve?

When ones idly sit and wait for rejoice,
Are they truthfully just waiting for nothing?
Sometimes my screams are just sound waves
And nothing more than a lack of breath
But who to blame other than myself?

I laugh--not because self-deprecation is comical,
But because my problems are waiting to repeat
In a chain of Summers where I meant to do one thing
But I ended up adoring Winter as opposed to itself
Am I indulged in, for lack of a better word, paradoxidents?

You might as well send me off to my own special country
Where I am free from isolation; that's the place to be, isn't it so?
Blank stares are nothing more than my mere personality I say
I can stay outside observing the withered apple trees all night long
But what I truly want to do all day is walk along the foggy streets
Can someone other than myself please keep me away from the cliff?