As death flows through my lungs,
I breath in and out, wondering why i still live.
Hanging on this noose of sorrow,
It's stifling, shouldn't i be dead by now?
Filled with thoughts of suicide and hate,
My mind throbs with confusion... I don't want to be here anymore...
My hands are shaking and I'm unstable.
People walk by, but they don't care to pay attention.
I'm alone with an audience. My rose is wilted with sorrow and it's breaking...
Like an infant i have no clue as to whats to become of me,
But unlike that infant I'm not striveing for life anymore...
I've become the suicide messiah, repenting for everyones pain but my own.
If living is to strive for life, then i must be truly dead, but i still feel.
Then again, maybe this feeling is nothing more than mere death creeping up on me. Sometimes i consider myself and angel with no wings and a rusted knife,
With no will to live for myself.
I breath in and out, wondering why i still live.
Hanging on this noose of sorrow,
It's stifling, shouldn't i be dead by now?
Filled with thoughts of suicide and hate,
My mind throbs with confusion... I don't want to be here anymore...
My hands are shaking and I'm unstable.
People walk by, but they don't care to pay attention.
I'm alone with an audience. My rose is wilted with sorrow and it's breaking...
Like an infant i have no clue as to whats to become of me,
But unlike that infant I'm not striveing for life anymore...
I've become the suicide messiah, repenting for everyones pain but my own.
If living is to strive for life, then i must be truly dead, but i still feel.
Then again, maybe this feeling is nothing more than mere death creeping up on me. Sometimes i consider myself and angel with no wings and a rusted knife,
With no will to live for myself.
