I Can't Fucking Write Books Because I Only Write Songs Now

in transit i lay still / the windows bend and ceilings mock the seas / faces move and their lips seem to stall / progress moves as egos laugh / and i still live in this crevice of a home / and of course the most terrifying things aren't real / but alas my vision's blocked by projections of demons under my bed

help me redirect my will / shadows are not scared of pills / i know now that words can kill / rip the cords out of my throat / i'm sick of sounding like a joke / hope i'm silenced, hope i choke

in transit i lay still— / sharp skin and syringes pierce my eyes / i never was one to put up a fight / progress moves as voices amass / and i could not care less for this piece of shit called home / and of course they say that only time can heal / but i, well i could have been dead by now

last time i felt sharp was when it cut my wrists / last time i lived was when i jumped ship / thought i knew better than to let stones break my bones / but i guess i'm just dumb for leaving my limbs exposed / if i stayed here / for a day or two / do you think maybe then these knives could get through? / pray to whatever's in the sky for the courage to die / dear god, why do i even try