Sorry for the Night - Demons Still Visit Me

Desperation courses through my veins. The sort of immature sensation one feels when they are fourteen and "nobody understands." Such childish games. It's the sort of wicked games that the world revolves around though. If you fuck up and nobody sees, was it really a fuck up to begin with? I'm sort of stuck in this pinebox mentality coming up with better outcomes to my worst solution. Hate me hate me hate me. Kiss me in the gurney before they take me away. I'm diseased and I'm not even sure that's strictly metaphorical. The calendar is my lover, counting me away with a kiss on every past date. And then there's self-dementia. What could possibly be worse than being insane? Having the actual label stuck onto you. "Bipolar" "Neurosis" "Schizophrenia" Alzheimer's heart beating me past every breath that counts down. Ragnarok to love. I've been misled past the crowning of princes. The glass of water in which I drown every day just gets bigger and bigger. It's a fucking ocean. All that resonates are the clicking keys that give off the empathy I so much desire, but can't completely receive. What's love if it's just situational? Why do all the pieces need to come click? Why can't it sprout in the midst of a car crash or a trainwreck? Why am I so consistently fixated and obsessed with Love? My heart's the cage and I'm the one stuck within, comprehended by my subconscious routes. I'm the tree no one listens. I'm the pressure in the bottom of the ocean. I'm just the culmination of mistakes summed up into a carefully woven package. I'm the kid parents worry to conceive. And now, worst of all, I can't make words sound pretty because I don't have the fucking time to.

Black coat, white shoes, black hat, Cadillac.