Sometimes, helping others sinks you; you lose yourself after it ends
Maybe if I was more selfish, I could have stayed longer.
If I was busier, I wouldn’t be paranoid.
If I knew someone that loved me like I loved them, I wouldn’t be distraught.
My limits weren’t my limits; they were my parents.
Not true. I never stood up to them.
Did I really love you if I never stood up for you?
In the end, the problem was me; I wasn’t careful.
We lost our spark.
I’m too emotional, I still chased you.
I was too comfortable. I was a big shot. I was wrong.
But it doesn’t matter now, I’m moving on.
Everyone I was with, I helped.
Now that I’m with me, I can help myself.
I can love myself the way nobody ever could.
I’m no longer sinking.
I’ve plugged the vessel.
I’m carefree.
I use to be the kid that motivated.
And it’s my goal to become him again.
In the end, the small things will remind.
They remind.
In the end, everything will be fine.

Those shadowy emissaries
That pass the mind’s great lidless eye
In slow procession through the night
Do fill with color and with sound
The sleeping brain’s vast sweeping bound,
And populate its cityscapes
And alleys with amorphous shapes
That shifting form and countenance
Convey the tides of fleeting thought;
And oft become dark shapes of dread,
Parades of faceless horrors, such
That when I glance their looks are changed –
Each lineament is rearranged –
All meaning or remembrance lost,
Or masked by sweet forgetfulness.
The secret that there lurks within
The labyrinths of memory,
Still tainted by the stench of guilt -
And strengthened by the voice of fear -
Still screams from some dark hidden cell
The lurid blasphemies of hell,
And births itself anew each night,
Each morning dying with the light,
Yet nightly grows in hateful strength,
Corrodes the sturdy locks of will,
And claws through those great iron doors
That lead to waking consciousness.

This is the worst feeling
to be drowning on something
that's not there.
Becoming the empty shell
of a fool who had fallen in love
with the thought of loving someone
instead of the action of doing so.

And you never know how much
it hurts to love someone
when they finally let you go.
And you never know how much
more it hurts to know
that you already had a chance
of doing so.

What do you mean come to the wake?

Aren't you coming over still?

I thought you had a show next week...

Wasn't that you on the phone the other day?

When did we last speak?

Was it in good context as I remember it was?

I just can't conceive to believe that you're not.

How can I come to your wake when I'm still only dreaming?

Who will I go with?

Surely not you...

It couldn't be.

I just won't believe. I'm not going to leave.

I can't be at a wake for a man that hasn't died yet...

I simply refuse to believe.