Don't Count the Bumps on the Ceiling...

I often wonder why we try...
Every day we get back up on our horses trying to ride life through
Even the "mask of lies" façade is starting to feel a bit clichéd

Sometimes I find myself asking whether or not the real reason why we haven't killed ourselves
Is just because we never had the guts to do it

I don't think its ever because we had too much to live for
Much less too much to die for
But the most of the time, the thing that drives us to a halt, is that we have people we can't die for
As if in our selfish moment of suicide, we know that we could set off a chain reaction
One after one, we'd all fall down
I was his best friend, he was mine, then his friends are affected by him
What is it that we're afraid to die for?

I often wonder what it looks like to live a life unbounded by the chains of society
Moving free toward the sun like some movie where the hero rides into the sunset
All is well and he starts his life over, his turmoil marking his new beginnings

But that cant happen, you see?
It just cant happen...

Do me a favor, and never count the bumps on the ceiling,
Because after you count far enough, you'll start to ponder life,
Most of the time looking for an answer,
And, friend, I've learned if you ever try to look for an answer
Or look in a mirror asking yourself the question "Why?"
You'll always lead back to depression
You'll always get lost in thought while your soul will die...

I'm sorry if that's over dramatic
It's just that I'm over-obsessed with the word "insanity".
It's as if our brains want to give up,
Our hands shaking, and our hearts are breaking
And it's not biological, you just get so caught up in your mind, that you'll again start to ask questions again,
Yet, this time, you don't resort to resentment,
You just stand there laughing hysterically, because there is nothing left to do,
But let the words flow down through you into your fingers, and through the pen
Like a drug, allowing us to get some kind of twitchy comfort
Deriving from the words you organize in your thoughts
Holding on to nostalgia like a dear friend hanging off a cliff,
But this time your friend isn't holding on anymore,
Instead, everyone plus the friend, is asking you, begging you
"Please let me go..."

I often wonder...
Why do we hold on to the past?
We knew it'd never last
Because if we live in that domain, we will be stricken with fear unable to carry on to the future

Friend...
If that mirror I talked about earlier reflected your soul
If all the reflections showed our true nature,
Would everyone we love abandon us?
Would we be left asking "Why?"?

For now...
If it makes any sense at all,
Like birds withhold their innocence,
We repeat the songs we sing
Because birds don't speak...
They sing...
The only judging they do is whether of not to mate with each other or not...
We aimlessly sing these songs,
And I believe that every time we sing a song, it goes somewhere
They were meant for someone,
I believe that every songwriter out there writes a song with the intentions to vent,
And whether or not they realize it,
They write for the purpose to finally be heard...

Some of us pray to God in attempts to be acknowledged
Like innocent baby birds waiting to be fed,
So we sing our songs, and they may not be beautiful,
But we will be heard...
God and these people will listen to our cry.
Because as we ask our questions "Why?",
We know that we live to write,
And to connect to the social atmosphere,
Just hoping that someone out there has the same exact feelings as us,
And that our words align with their thoughts,
The thoughts of those who choose not to write, or those who think they can't
We try to give them the same reason to live,
And although it may not be natural,
Like prosthetic limbs, our songs and prayers hold a place for them, at least for show
Just so they can "Keep Calm and Carry On"...

Even Superman can't fight his battles sometimes...
I look toward the horizon and I feel hope...
Not hope for tomorrow, just enough to convince myself and know that past that, there are others...
There are people out there who feel what I'm saying,
Who know what it's like to be alone, but with so many people around them to support them,
Because depression runs deep, and it feeds off of our deepest fears.
Every amateur knows that weeds have to be pulled from the roots, or they will just grow back
If weed killer worked, there would be no weeds
Taking pills for depression will only prolong the inevitable.
I'm not asking you to solve it all on your own,
We need companionship,
But pills won't help, trust me I've tried...
We're so self-destructive...

I often wonder...
Why do we put ourselves in situations that only make these so much worse for ourselves,
As if we think somewhere down this short line we call life,
There will be some kind of bed we can rest on along the way...
Let me save you time and tell you...
It doesn't get any easier...
Life sucks...
I know it's hard to be an optimist,
And I know people who try to be the optimist for others, including myself,
But sometimes, it is impossible to be a beacon of hope for people...
I have grown accustom to hatred for sympathy, but that's just me
Help is something we seek on this planet, but sometimes it is a hard thing to find,
If you find it too quick, I promise it either doesn't work,
Or it is only a stop for gas to fuel the long, long journey you have ahead of you in this short life
It will only seem short when you grow old, and you will finally be able to look in the mirror,
And we'll be so weary that we in fact can see ourselves the way we are,
We'll be that delusional, but we'll have the clarity we've all sought out to find in our minds
In this extended amount of small time we called existence
I just hope that that day I wake up and find I'm a little less worse off than I had imagined.

Promise me you'll never look in the mirror,
Promise me you'll never count the bumps on the ceiling.
Promise me, you'll do something.

Because when we're not busy,
We often wonder...