Where is it to that I run,
underground, away from the sun,
and safe but dead from a dream.
I wanna live life, and not live thought.
So, can I kiss the mouth of the open stream,
or do I die bitter; assume its all for nought
I wake up now only to resent the new morn,
the radiant sun, the freshly mowed lawn,
and all the life inside me that dies;
to live now with but a thorn,
would require a shady disguise.
Why is it my shadow's left unfound?
Why am I too weak to scream a sound?
To prove it is merely life that I crave.
Why can't I possess what other retain abound?
I cannot exist within this self-dug grave.
So what now, do I accept a disguise,
to show a used preconception of what to be;
Oh, I must see the reflection of these eyes
that speak sadly of the nightmare of vanity.
I shall decay, no plans will I undergo,
to obtain the widely held golden prize,
that I will never see contained in blue skies
I'm sorry if this sucked.