All Of These Writings Will Die With SW One Day...

I've got a small inner world,
But it feels too big for me.

Overwhelming sounds of silence,
Stained with the repeating words.

I sometimes, dream of violence,
When I don't want to hurt.

Instead of flames, licking/consuming,
Maybe I can dream of fields of green.

When we're dead and gone,
When we're dead and gone,
Where we're dead and gone,
And the world reclaims its beauty.

Do you feel ugly like I do?
Do moral choices ever feel too much for you?
Because no matter what you do,
You're just a bag of flesh that shits and consumes.

And I am turning blue,
Looking for the truth,
But it's never found,
Until we can go down,
To a place that has no view.

Over the edge,
Of the waterfall.
I long to be, just a drop of mist,
Just a small part, in a spectral bliss.
Not the focus, but not entirely missed.

I want something to matter,
Even though I'm not sure if we ever did.