To die is an art
How your heart stops beating
How your organs stop working,
You disappear.

To die,
Many people wish they were dead,
Yet they do nothing about it.
I believe dying is a beautiful art.

I, I wish I were dead, yet I don't do a thing about it,
Just committing masochism,
What should I do?

"Why do you sleep so much?"
"Are you tired? You don't do anything anyway"
"Why do you lay there alone?"
"Come out of your room for once!"

To all of them, I cannot tell them I'm depressed as an answer.
I cannot open up to everyone who asks me one of those.

I, myself can't answer those questions, I guess my only answer would be, "I'm depressed as ****".
Is that even enough as an answer? Is it a valid excuse?
Am I enough?

I guess I would just answer:
I sleep so I don't have to deal with life.
Yeah I'm tired, I can't do much, I'm not good at much stuff, but I'm so mentally tired that it all becomes physical.
I like being alone so I don't have to deal with being so insecure because of how awkward I am.
I don't and I won't come out of my room; real world can't come in.

I guess those are just lazy excuses.
It's not enough.
I'm not enough.

I built walls with wire
Wrapped tightly around my heart
The wounds hadn't quite yet turned to scars
And I was determined
To not let anyone else
Tear the almost closed wounds apart
I was so afraid
Because everyone else proved to all be the same
But then you came along
Waited patiently for the wire to unwind
So you could climb my towering walls

"I see a universe within your eyes"
You said to me
"I need to see more"

I didn't understand you
Because I saw demons, not daisies
In the garden of my soul
And when I watched you realize that
You took every minute to show me
All that you saw
And tonight
As you sit amongst my thoughts
I'm seeing daisies