I've got a misguided belief that everything will be alright. But I still brood in disbelief almost every single night. So I sit in my room- teeth clenched and eyes closed. And think about the things about you I miss the most.

How you smile even though everything's gone to hell and how I get depressed when things are going twice as well. About you laughing in the car about some offhanded remark that I made when the piece of junk wouldn't start up.

I said I'd wait for you here
I'm rooted to this spot forever
It seems I'm stuck here in this place
Until the sky is falling.

She said you never write of falling in love. And I could only reply I write about things I know. Like losing trust and cutting wrists and breaking bones and being depressed.

And she told me to write about something else. And she said that it might help. So I'm writing this instead. But her voice still rings in my head.

But I'm not waiting for the answer. I'm not hanging around for this.

We make excuses, not progress
And the hint of the dawn is killing us

And it's the horizon glow
Behind trees and skylines and ways home
And it's the way that the sun sets and sunrise
Through windshields look to my eyes

Like no one is watching.

I hope that you're watching.

I guess sometimes the words get caught on my tongue
Amid the torrents of thoughts that only massacre the outcome
Like I'm choking on the only words that seem important
The "I love you's" and "you matter" get lost in the indifference

And I've tried writing you a letter, but my head gets lost in my heart's confusion.
So I just sit there staring blankly at the paper right in front of me
The words just come so slowly and I wait for them impatiently
The sun sets and I still try to write something for you perfectly.

The sun rise through my windshield isn't anything as pretty as your blue eyes

I chose music over my friends and now I don't have a single one left. I guess what I'm saying is you meant more than music ever did.

And it's a bit ironic how these words become the next song. And I wrote them to replace all the friends I've already lost.

I'd rather choose to die young than be stuck here forever taking pills and taking shots and hoping my heart will feel better. Taking chance after chance but it feels like I'm dying. Not from fear or disappointment but because my father is crying.

And if I feel disenchanted, I hope the feeling won't last forever. I've been choking on words that are the only ones that matter. And if you wait for me here, then I swear I'll come back to you waiting patiently but I just don't know what to do.

Or what to say or what to feel and if my heart is made of steel, then it's not broken, it's just rusting. It's just heavy on my mind. And all the drawings and the letters, and the praying I'll feel better. And I'm not breaking, I'm just bruising. And how I wish that you were mine.

I'm terrified that now you've left me that soon you'll just forget me and I'll just be all alone once again.

And I fear that when I call you that you will just ignore it and I'll just be talking to myself once again.

I'm giving you this heart in the hopes that you may keep it and I pray it won't get broken once again.

And when I'm missing you most my dear, I'm wishing for you home and I'm afraid that I'll just be all alone once again.

Sometimes I drive to feel fine, to feel alive, to feel anything at all. And the seat beside me is often empty, but it's okay because I drive to not feel lonely.

But sometimes the seat fills with people, with things- often notebooks and pens. Not pencils. And these people change, they up and leave. Say goodbye and never look back.

But it's okay, because I was just driving to drive anyway. Sometimes in silence and sometimes with the crackle of the stereo. Mostly though the sounds of bands that have helped me feel less lonely.

And in the backseat is usually a guitar. And it's not always in a case. And windows down. Key in ignition always. Never mind when I'm not around.

I'm not hanging around.

I write uncomfortable poems
I write a bit too much about death
And of these feelings so familiar
And about how she would cut her ******* wrists

And how she would call and recount the horror; I can recall the shaking of her breath
And how every word seemed to break like thunder over telephone lines
And how she'd curse her name with razor blades
And how the feeling of helplessness always kept me awake.

And I write disasters down on paper
And about what else life has left
And of these destructive behaviors
To forget my own, I write out hers

They say it's good to see me smile
And how they haven't seen it in a while

And they ask about my writing-
Am I still troubled and alone.
"Are you still writing about cutting?"
Am I still afraid of all these ghosts?

No, I don't think so.

I might be troubled, but I'm not lonely
I was never afraid to be alone

And I write of self harm because it comes easy

There's a laziness with which you speak
There's an apathy
That seems so easy
Ambition is not part of your routine

We're not looking for excuses
     We're not looking for anything at all
We're not waiting for the end of times to be
Cause we're feeling restless
Feeling desperate
Can you feel this yet?

You lie awake at night counting sheep
Through bloodshot eyes; are you feeling weak?
There's a world outside of this
And it's crumbling quickly

I'm feeling like the hero in a Salinger book
Dodging your questions and all your ***** looks.

And when you turn the next page
I'll wish things'd stayed the same.
Between the lines about last year
And this year's opening phrase.

Every feeling I've carved
In with a pen
Dragged across paper
And threw in the trash bin.

What a waste of my time
Can I please waste yours?
I'm sitting on front steps
And knocking on back doors.

It's a perfect day for bananafish
It's a perfect day to feel alive
It's a perfect day for bananafish
It's a perfect night

And at times,
I feel like I've changed.
Learned all my lessons
And shouldered all the blame.

But I know,
It's a feeling short lived.
I'll give up the ghost
And let bitterness sink in.

And I'm sure
By the end of the night,
I'll have plans to call you
But those plans just won't feel right.

It's a thing
I know I'll regret
But you'll get married next year,
so I might as well forget.

Raise high the roofbeam, carpenters
We'll make the house come crashing down
Raise high the roofbeam, carpenters
I'm bringing it down