Shrug it off so you don't cry.
Inside, you hope soon you might die.
The window calls and you come near,
but though death seems probable, it's "the hell" you fear.
So you give a cold shoulder to tears and pain.
You numb your feelings and your shirt's blood stain.
You pretend to not notice and say,"whatever."
But inside you're hoping death is closer.
You try to stay calm and make life simple,
yet every one thinks you must be gimple.
You stay out of trouble just to make through the day,
so to maintain your image you can never be allowed to play.
Sometimes you laugh the pain away,
but no one can see your smile decay.

there are things
i can't do anymore
i've been doing all those things
a lot lately

just can't stop
every night the songs are played
i've had enough but i would just
have to do nothing or do something else

i'de like to be more descript
but every night
i inhale something lit
and scott gimple just knows
he is a better writer than Robert Kirkman
every time he kills off the main character,
the most integral part of the story,
the whole reason for the story in the first place

so brave
so thirsty
so scott gimple

as you boldly go
declining the standard advice
instead you can drink too much
at the christmas party

so brave
so thirsty
so about to bring up bill cosby

to your co-worker's fat and loudly still racist husband
as you sit near the nice black lady who works
at the front desk, smiles at you every morning
and orders all the good stuff for the breakroom