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Sick of myself
It's 7:30 in the am, and here I sit listening to Matthew Sweet.
My pores are sick and my soul is beginning to reek.
I haven't slept since I don't know when and I don't wanna try.
Soon she will take me and I'm too weak to fight.
Did I ever have a life, you know, those things from the movie screen.
The happily ever after. the big catch to win the game, the final scene.
All I see is the fade to black,
the thunderstorm that's poised to consume me.
Hell, my dreams are against me.
and Hope? Hope has burned a hole right through my skin
pass the bone scorching the sinew on it's way out.
I look in the mirror and I wanna smash my fist through it.
maybe then I would feel something other than sick.
But no! that's not the way to feel
and yet here I am, not tired, not happy, not real.
I would cry if I could find the tears
but then again they're all gone from the broken years.
The years of watching your dreams slip away.
and the colors of life slowly decay.
The years of trying to fight the way life is - the powers that be
only to find yourself alone and tired, ravaged by their need.
I know there is a God! His Son lives in my heart.
But Father, the life you gave, it's tearing me apart
