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silent tears,

a waste of my years,

dying inside,

and always abiding in sorrow.

tomorrow i might not wake up,

i'd consider that luck,

and wouldn't want anyone to weep.

keep living the vida loca,

and taking a toke of your dro,

nomore will i wonder what others think,

as i sink into that everlasting hole.

my goal is heaven,

but i know to get there whoa! it's hell.

tell me what i should think

when my insides are hollow,

full from swallowing my pride,

drifting away on a tide,

no longer having to hide from my fate.

it doesn't feel great,

not to care anymore,

enduring love,

or at least a sense of it.

i can't rise above it,

so with false wit,

i'll put it all away,

and dream about that tomorrow

while living for today.