Sitting in a moon lit field
In my hands, the future I yield
I've got a personal stationary kit
Cross legged I sit
Swallowing stables to repair my inner self

Am I to be martyred?

Sitting in a moon lit field
In my hands, the future I yield
I've got a personal stationary kit
I'm in a panic, my heart's edging its final fit
Cross legged I sit
With a scissors I cut off my rough edges

Am I to be martyred?

Sitting in a moon lit field
In my hands, the future I yield
I've got a personal stationary kit
In my head I feel this is it
Using a ruler to guide my knife
Blood falls like a liquid hour glass ending my life

I can't be who I have to be
My aspirations far outweigh my ability
My motivation is hindered by my stupidity

I'm sick of the annual near life experience

Depression is the zeitgeist of our generation

Correct me if I'm wrong

Sitting in a moon lit field
In my hands, the future I yield
I've got a personal stationary kit
I try to hot clue my memories
The fondest, I fear, aren't even true

I feel like I'm being eaten alive
I'm a lobster in a *** slowly being boiled
My claws are being torn from me
My very soul being soiled
My heart is still beating
My legs are being ripped from my rife carcass
I cry louder than I ever thought possible
Still breathing I am in gross darkness
My eyes feel like they're going to bleed
My tail is ripped from me
I wish I could plea
But I'm just one
I'm just me

Sitting in a moon lit field
In my hands, the future I yield
I've got a personal stationary kit
But I will share