Cinnamon rolling hills passing out my glass confining piece of hell.
Wake me only if your telling me death is closer than 80 years.
Oh dear heavens, give me a taste of beauty, give me a sniff of glory, give me a whisper of love. Give me a sign that things will get better.
The dimly lit candle we ignited last summer, we shoved under our beds with outgrown clothes and dust.
Crinkled wrappers and checker tables and postcards and magnifying glasses.
I remember when I still looked forward to waking up.
Snowball effect of water trickling down my face, gallons and gallons and I still don't feel better.
At this point your words echo off my skin like a canyon of crystal glass.
Hold my icy hands, and hold them close to your heart, in hopes of warming up my cold head. My gears haven't been working right since the freeze.
They say thats what it does to you, but it's all in your head. And the pills are made of sugar, and the monsters are just a bad dream.
I fantasize of a place where there's no floors or solid ground, and your always falling, and matter isn't real. The only thing real is the wind in your hair and the air in  your lungs and the beating of your heart and you are alive.
I'm running out of answers. I'm running out of questions.
My voice is scratchy and I can't scream anymore, my eyes are dry and my heart is raw and my head is numb. I wonder if I've finally just faded into the wallpaper and I can finally go to sleep and not wake up.
Oh dear heavens please, just give me a sign that things will get better.
Give me something to hold on too.