Im sick of playing games, not sayin any names, but no one seems to understand
Nothing is fine, nothings alright, my life really isnt that grand
Its not what you see but what you believe that keeps you in the dark
no one ever prys no one ever tries, thats why no ones ever seen the spark
too easy to recite, too easy too ignite, but also to easy to hide
very few've been deemed worthy, very few have seen, the demons hidden inside
perhaps id be more open, maybe more outspoken, if someone gave a fuck
until the day arises, full of its surprises, my writings where im stuck
I spill my feelings through this pen, and every time i start again, it seems its something new
it seems im trapped and fading black so whats a man to do??
zoning alone, in the cold and unknown, facing his demons himself
on one to find, no one designed for his through sickness and health
You dont see him screaming while he battles his demons, you dont realize his troubles
he shows you his "world", where everythings gold, but never inside the bubble
so you never see past, the unstable glass that blurs the outside view
you have no idea of what hes been seeing, of what he wants to do
of finding the irony, in trying to describe, the hand of what has been wrote
only he knows well, the depths of his hell, his own hand at his throat
and all of the oddity, of this foreign commodity, that never seems to tighten
and a glance to the past, the shadow still lasts, his spirits never brighten
and still with his illusion, so come the conclusion, the story of his years
another day awaits, where no one can relate, alone to face his fears
Dustin B. Unrath 4/30/08
