I'm Always Alone In This

You’re not there for me and you never will be. What is the price of true sacrifice, is it a moment or a time or a life. What is more painful to give up, your life as a whole or your life in bits and pieces. What experiences are you willing to pass by to make someone else happy? Why is it easy to let go sometimes and so hard at other times? I care what you think but I don’t care what anyone thinks but I have an opinion on what I’d like them to think and I like to think that the things thought are good things but the good things come and go and are sometimes embellished and when the high wears off when you finally come down from your happiness you pick apart your experiences, sifting through the grains for imperfections and mistakes that shine brighter than gold and brighter than the sun and God holding hands. When I come down from the happiness high I plummet. You’re never there. It’s easy to forget the people who have no one to take care of them. Because they’re the ones that seem the strongest, the ones that are outwardly tough and have a big mouth and laugh the loudest and make good impressions because they’re awesome. You forget them even if you like them because it doesn’t cross your mind that they’re not okay. But they’re not and they haven’t been and you never notice, you never pick up the phone when you’re supposed to and you don’t keep your promises and you don’t notice anything. The entire world will read this before you do and a stranger will comment and you will still have not read it but you’ll come here when there’s a hamster wearing a costume or a naked girl or a rock song. But you won’t come here for this, and you won’t ever listen, and you’ll leave the party early or not come to the fucking party at all. You’re horrible and full of shit and I want the outside to swallow me warm, I want the ice to wrap around me and I want to close my eyes and be numb. The only comfort I experience is the kind I create for myself, the kind I can’t explain in words because it’s all feelings in my head. The closest I ever get is through music, a song here or there or a mix or a million other factors I never speak of but there it is. My secret’s not a secret and it never has been. And there is one thing, just one, that is above all others. Above most people, even, and I’m going to miss it. But it’s not a big deal to you, or anyone, and I can’t tell more than three people about right now because it’s laughable but it’s about more than just this. It’s about more than one fucking band or concert or album, it’s about me. I am lost and I am empty at the best of times and I am never understood. But when I listen to my music I feel understood. My death scene is not yet written nor guaranteed but I don’t know either way if someone else will be there with me, if I find someone to love for my life and they are there, or if I’ll have children and they’ll be there, or if I’ll keep any of you as friends and you’ll be there. I don’t know if you’ll be there or if I’ll be alone but if I’m lucky enough for a deathbed I know I’ll have music. I’ve had a million words said to be and they didn’t mean anything in the end. My existence is personified irony, I love words and am in love with words and their meanings and yet it is a constant panic pumping through my veins because in the end and in the beginning and in the present always forevermore all consuming currently and always they just don’t mean anything at all. Words don’t mean anything unless they’re in a song. As if I could live on words and dreams and a million screams; how I need a hand in mine to feel.