Just about.

"Stomach in knots, easing them out with throwing up, build it all back up again. Headache sets, easing it out with a gun to my head, pick up the pieces. Life loses it's wonder, and you don't know what you're here for. When you're caught at the wrong place at the wrong time, everyday, death is a mere step. These are the days when I could end it all."

Some things you just never stop paying for.

"I won everything I wanted on a scratch ticket and then had to give it all away, the government came by and said I had bills to pay. I tried to flee out the back door, but they were there before I could. I begged and I pleed to set me free, but they wouldn't. They threw me in a cell half the size of my room, without a pillow and a blanket, just a toliet, a faucet to wash my face, and a small amount of empty space. I got a book, but I couldn't read much. I couldn't focus on fantasy enough. Maybe someday they'll tell what I really did wrong, because I didn't have enough money for long doesn't make any sense to me. I had plans, I had dreams, I thought of the unthinkable. I wanted to be free, I wanted to be happy, but those things you can't control yourself anymore."

A bit unsettling.

"No one is ever who they seem, they speak on your level to see how you see. Learn from your words and adapt to your thoughts and it turns out wrong. Sometimes I think so much the blood rushes to my head and I can barely stand. Sometimes it makes me so overwhelmed I can't stay conscious. It eats at me when I think about everyone else, not spending enough time on myself. When I grow older I'll realize that I am what matters most, and that no one is ever quite like me. I accept this. I'm insomnia's setting son. I don't know what I want, so I stay awake. I'm sustained off visions filled with discontent, and for that I can not rest."

Untitled

"One of these days I'm going to die by my own hands. I will stare at myself blood red and content. The frustration is a bubbling fester, and I need it to cease. I will do whatever it takes to rid myself of this disease. Impatiently waiting on a change, that I can not bring myself. I am weakening and can not find anywhere that seems fit or willing. I am my own, and I am tired of myself, and when I go to sleep I hope to never awake."

Stockholm.

"I have you and thought about you, now what do I do with you? I followed you and took an interest in you, now what do I do with you? You are mine to keep and you will never leave, whether it be the backseat, the bedroom, or basement. There are others around you, but none quite like you, I kept you here for a reason. I make you realize who you are and what you are for a reason. When I go, please don't be alarmed, please don't be afraid, for I will come back. I made you the way you are and you are mine, when I come back for you, I will apologize. I have to leave town for a couple of days, so don't make a sound please. They will find you and you will stay quiet. They will question you and you will stay silent. They will set you on your way, and you won't last. Without me, you are nothing. Without you, I am nothing. I will find you again."

Time, and time again.

"The way I've been acting, well lately, is only in the light I've seen. I bathe in the heat, while the other kids sleep, because they're tired and they want to go to bed. I would say that I know better now, after getting burned, I think I've figured my way out. After each setting sun, I've arose from the non-believers, I'm getting fairly closer, to what I should of been, what I'm trying to be."

Take my hand, and off we stride...

You are quite the puzzle, torn into pieces and put together by the end of the night. You run around all the work week just to sleep the ends away. And where is your paycheck dear? You seemed to have misplaced it to the collector, the three piece suit prospector. He will make a living off of you. Terrible to hear, but you're so wonderful to see, just pack up, move out and leave.

What time is it?

Head in between your knees and you can start to feel the wind scratch against the back of your neck. Your fingers tightly bound together over your head as you keep every frustrated thought forced inside. A group sits besides you, all unfirmiliar to you and everyone around them. You overhear everything they say, but you can't make out a single word they say. Stress blurs your senses and it dulls your motivation as you slowly give up to continue walking.

I don't belong.

Its only going to rain for another day, following you. Let you see the light and then let you watch it stitch up. You'll feel the cold grey breeze beneath you, it will bother you. You'll feel the sun rise for the morning, underslept and annoyed. You wake up from a half eye opened rest to a window collecting raindrops. It's white mist is all you can see beyond. You have no one to blame for the weather, so you grey another hair.

Withering.

Hospital bracelet and an empty pack of cigarettes, wasn't this the life you couldn't expect? Steady going through your teenage years, make your mark and placed it here. Stale dead air runs through the radiator, inhale exhaust and ash. Enter passenger, it replaces the god on your side. This grey setting, the meaning in your life. Pale white heat beats down your face, a yellow smile cracks, another day awaits.