Do you want to see inside? I'm afraid you can't It's too messy inside I need that space to hide All that useless junk we buy And I haven't swept up yet There's the corner where I cried We had a stinky rat, but it died That room's for my bride That door is an illusion It really leads outside Circumnavigates our dwelling There really is no telling Why that portal lies That's not a door! It's a jar! And it's letting in the flies And they're buzzing all inside My hollow head, which I call home My brain is locked, the key's a comb Please don't enter It's not a house It's a tomb
The new Bo Burnham special "Inside" is pretty **** good. (This is sorta a tribute).
I'm broken inside, I tried to fix it, I really tried; But it was so fragile, That even when I tried to fix it, It would only get worse. My body was tired. My mind was in chaos. My heart was broken. And my soul was shattered.
I feel dead. I feel dead, Like the leaves, and the trees, and the missing names from my poems. Daydreaming away hours of the day, About escaping reality while escaping reality.
When I feel dead, I feel scared, And I feel scared because this is the dead that I felt with the knife. And I know that full well.
I know this feeling more than any other. I’ve been with it longer than any other. The dead that makes you forget what it was like to be alive, And this becomes the new alive.
I am so tired. I am terrified. More scared than dead. I have no instruction manual. No words to tell myself to stop feeling dead. I promised myself I wouldn’t feel this way again, and yet, I have nothing in terms of keeping that promise.
Falling without help will **** me. Hitting the ground without help will **** me. Help will **** me. Because the hand reaching out to keep me from falling is choking me. Cutting off my air and replacing it with cold, cold water. This is who I am, And if I don’t keep it distracted, It will **** me.
Breath condensing against glass confines, Out of order, out of being. Undaunted rebellion against the boundless universe, Splayed out onto bed sheets or forest ground. In the corners of damp alleys. Law, worries, ribbons undone. Hair fallen, laughably bedraggled. Melting snow dancing on raven feathers. Faint fingertips skimming across that brazen chest. Oxygen crestfallen for its own demise. And oh, how it will die. Kin with each unmerciful covenant. Maimed by wayward kisses and borrowed time. This mortal revolt championed by love. God is dead and we are still here. The world is ending, and we are still free.