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What It Is
I feel like every single thing is like a mind game, played and laid out for me
I can't feel a single thing, like I'm not blind, but I still can't see
What is it really? Perhaps it's not that important?
Tell me what it is, or is it just my own comportment?
I have walked in the very things I've looked down upon
What I once thought was selfish, now I too am wrong
and now there is blood all over my hand
But I have no idea why, I just don't understand
This is a complication called the human mind
Irony, double standards, hypocrisy, A place to be so blind
To wallow and loop in this thick puddle of shame
For the mistakes commited, I fairly wore the blame
Knowing is the beginning is something I suppose
It's better to learn, rather than to find it to oppose.
So I guess I'll take my feelings and throw them to the floor
I'll leave you where you originally were, trapped inside a closed door
And you can echo your goodbyes
as you embrace yourself to the ink of sheer ignorance and sighs..
