There's a slow sadness tapping at the window panes of my mind
It's just the dancing ghosts, trying to convince me to let them in
And feed them. And love them
Love all the people I buried with my own shovel, piling the dirt onto their grey dull bodies
I have not wept for anyone except myself in years
I feel the tears trickle down my cheeks ever so slightly, dying my face in war paint like blood
How many lives have been lost in this war storm? In this never-ending heat wave, scorching all who cross my path
I am only pain and death, wearing a hood to hide my ugly mug, and a silver scythe that never reaps what it sows
A pitiful Grim Reaper, a teenager wearing black
But if only you could see the damage that lays in my wake, eyeballs that look into the sky and see nothing, limbs blasted apart by my words and empty promises
I cannot be saved
I'm sorry
I'm sorry I can't be better
Loneliness has strangled me and left a dangling corpse, hanging from the ceiling: the old me
Just another body to add to my morgue
Yes, that was a reference to NF's song 'Outcast': "Better me is what I'm working towards/ Looking for the old me?/ Check the morgue!/"
