Over the Ceiling

I was staring at the ceiling, faking a smile and I got a single thought.

If I was really happy I’d be counting the tiles by the blackboard where the jukebox once was.

But it’s not there anymore and neither is the red chair by the front door.

I got up to leave, but the wind locked the door down,

the pressure was a bit too intense.

I wish they didn’t expect so much from someone who can’t even produce much less.

But if anyone asks you

just say she’s been trying to die but exist in a space that has someone else’s name on the chair.

She wanted to have a choice but she preferred to be dead than exist anywhere.

She’s crazy and hurt, but she’s run out of options and run out of time everywhere.

And she dances the nights in her mind thinking of the next time she’ll do it all again.

I was staring at the ceiling, brushing away tears and I got a single thought.

If I was really happy then I’d be doing something instead of people telling me I’m bored.

My life is a continuation of a radio station who’s static is interrupted by more

than the lives of the others that try to rule over me but I give up on their laws.

I can’t be someone I’m not for the sake of the life of the ones hand-drawn.

I wish they didn’t expect so much from someone who can’t produce much more.

But if anyone asks you

just say she’s been killing herself over the white kitchen shelves, pretending happiness does exist.

Her letters to God and her prayers never answered, she wants to rid herself of all of this.

She knows that she’s dead inside, keeping the word of God but she tries not to resist.

The pain of the fusion of made-up collusion, the fire the rages within.

The hand of the masked-man with seven white horses doesn’t fool her but leads everyone to sin.

I was staring at the ceiling, the sweat dripping from my furrowed brow and I thought.

The sound and the fury was way too loud and I felt like wrapping my hands around the law.

There’s something that’s stopping me playing this static sound, I haven’t got another choice for

the quite contusion of twenty approvals that don’t make me a person any more.

It’s been years since I’ve had a real smile or even had an original war.

I wish you didn’t expect so much from someone who can’t produce a happy thought.

But if anyone asks you

just say she’s been the sadness, the insane, the quite, the dumb and the icon of stereotype.

She’s been angry and suicidal, making the idols of her death that prepare her for fire.

She wants to be up in flames, under the ground, but at least she can say she’s not a liar.

For she doesn’t lie to herself or her God, but everyone seems to lie to her.

She’s got nothing to stand for, nothing to exist for, the sound of life is a lie.

She’s got nothing to stand for, nothing to live for, so she went off into her chamber to die.