Do not look at me.
Do not talk to me.
Demons are never supposed to be looked into the eye.
You'll see they cry, no one ever tells them how much they love 'em.
I am afraid. What if something slips out of my mouth, unknowingly a lie?
I worry about the good-byes.
Formal and unresponsive? Letting only some emotions through the veil, my heart through a sieve.
Or crying instead of sighing, black tears on my dusty soul. The tying of paths instead of the brutal separation. We must refrain from opening the curtains, or the sun will shine too bright for us to stand.
Not even allowed to brave the light.
They have to be the right words, phrased in the right way, right time, right expression, right tone, right zone...
Right, like that'll ever happen.
Words fall out of my mouth and to the floor, and lay there waiting in the empty echo of silence.
We are young, we reach our hands to the sky but the clouds sting us and we draw back with scars. So we crawl into the possible safety of where everyone else lays, in their graves. No one can hurt you when you're the same as everyone else, 'cept for the fact that you now might as well be dead 'cause all your opinions mirror, just another conformist in the crowd.
Well I tried flying and now I can't live without inhaling the fear of the clouds that used to burn me, but now only send me higher above all the graves everyone gratefully lies in.
