Sometimes, I kiss the stars good night,
but they never say they love me back.
And i think it's mostly 'cause they don't,
but they hang bright for me anyway.
It's cold out there, in outerspace,
but I can't go nowhere, 'cause I've pierced my lips through
with the tiny lies that make them bleed.
Keep biting them with the chill.
What's the sickest is it's not true,
those cute three words that build holidays and happy.
They're a lie, and you won't get
the meaning of the poem.
Bang.
