This is not the end,
This is not even the beginning of the end,
My friend.
A fear,
I wear.
Heart palpitations,
Unfinished resolutions,
Words unspoken, feelings unexpressed,
Repressed.
What is it like being repressed?
Secrets, mysteries and lies.
Amongst it all where really does the truth lie?
Is something that's kept a mystery, just another manipulated secret?
Or is the secret one of the lies said frequent?
What makes it different?
Why does it feel resistant?
Efforts persistent to avoid indifference,
I can feel my inner resonance.
Speaking to me, about me,
Are all of my memories real?
Or a carefully webbed series of lies to heal.
Heal?
What's there to heal?
Or how many lies to shield.
Wield.
Wield such enormous power
And refuse to yield,
But when-oh when? do thing start to amend,
Will there ever be the end?