It's almost humorous to me
that while my ship's mast is going under,
I can think of no words to describe my situation.
Then again, I'm so poetic. I'll make due.
I hate the nights when sweet dreams become mocking,
perfect candy coated lies...they taste bitter
and their acidity becomes all that is remembered.
It's just this residue of depression which I cannot shake.
Black balloons and black umbrellas,
they're but the perfect accent to red wrists and redder eyes.
You forget that we've fallen under a grey cloud.
You musn't forget again. No more flat-lining.
I'm so poetic as I watch my ship sink,
dragged under by these pretty, petty currents.
Grey cloud hurricanes can only taste so sweet...
It's almost humorous to me.
