I love how the rain strikes the ceiling panes, subtly inducing this feeling of desire to contemplate anything and everything that carries weight, or has meaning. Maybe I'm just dreaming.
You are, the death of me.

My character has been strained far enough, stained with blood. Why couldn't I have been the model son that maintained his grades, giving way for a better life, for not only myself, but my family. You are, the death of me.

I feel lost in the matrix, searching for the one that'll give me their heart without competition and ulterior intentions detrimental to our friendship. My thoughts are dark, clouded with confusion. I feel used. I feel clueless to that fact that I was naive enough to think you'd ever have my back. You are, the death of me.

A storm is conjuring, building momentum. When the fame comes, I'll have no choice but to forget them. I've always felt that I was from a different dimension, but have never felt the need to mention this to anyone. Because you were, the death of me.