At what age do your dreams finally die?
When seeing the morning light becomes a chore,
Because you know you have lost your will,
And everyday is more of a curse than blessing.
At what point do you succumb to the voices inside,
That keep insisting you can’t do this anymore?
And empty whiskey bottles are your only thrill,
That aren’t too fucking morbid for confessing.
Why do once lucid dreams become monochrome,
And everything is soaked in greys or red?
When do you come to terms that you’ve failed,
And that it’s too late to turn things around?
There comes a time any pillow feels like home,
To drown out the voices mumbling in your head,
That are telling you that the ship has sailed,
And the only place to go from here is down.
At what age do you stop feeding your delusions,
And see that you are beneath everybody else?
Should normal daydreams ever incite sadness,
After accepting you aren’t worthy of shit?
At what age is happiness just an illusion,
And you throw away the cards you were dealt?
When should lucidity turn into this madness,
And the end of life no longer has a script?
At what point do you stop thinking ahead,
And regret the mistakes that got you here?
The dream is dead and so are your friends,
And hindsight is all that you still cling on.
At what age do you brush off the insults said,
If the only thing keeping you standing is fear?
Is there a day a broken heart no longer mends,
And if it bleeds out, will this pain be gone?