• This wasteland that we live in.
    This place we call home.
    All the colors are fading.
    Leaving us alone.

    We don't speak with the voice we're used to.
    We don't dance with our feet.
    We don't see with our lustful eyes.
    Nothing is what it seems.

    sitting on my bed.
    Playing my guitar.
    Thinking about how close I was,
    And how terribly far.

    Screaming for some help.
    My eyes are glassing over.
    My voice is dulling out.
    My feet beyond repair.

    I don't know what to do.
    All I know is hate.
    These things that I write about.
    Are what YOU made.

    I'm losing myself to myself.
    But i don't want to go.
    The black snows falling.
    Tainted with unseen hope.