I’ve got a small house made of cobblestone,
and I have a mountain made of chairs.
I’m safely inside; withering to the bone,
and hanging onto my last remaining hairs.
I know what awaits outside my window
and I won’t open the door for anyone.
It’s not like I have any special place to go,
and I don’t care much for the beating sun.

The lights are all off, but I risk a candle
in truth it’s as much light as I can handle.
It’s solely so that I prepare for the battle
against the first foe; the lurking shadow
we all know.

But when a voice rings out
begging and pleading for my help,
asking me to simply let them inside.
I’m more worried about myself,
and preserving what’s left of my health.
I can’t prevent it, I run and hide,
I refuse to go outside.
Savor what’s left of my last breath,
today I won’t be tricked by death.

I let the stranger into my abode anyway
I guess I let my compassion get the best of me.
Emphasizing he had only minimal time to stay
he reassured he wasn’t tricking or testing me.
“Don’t you miss the trees and sun in a park,
why do you live like this way?” is what he said,
I replied “I’d rather be nothing in the dark,
instead of being dead.”
I won’t fade into my made bed.

But he’s the one that is bleeding,
medical attention he’s needing.
But I won’t let anyone into my fortresss of solitude.
Tells me he’s not trying to scare me
but letting him in was already daring,
I just can’t stand to be so cruel, uncaring or rude.
I refuse to be subdued.

He may not make it out alive
but maybe neither will I.
He shows his true colors and they thrive
as he shows me how to die.
The hand knocked and made it’s mark
but it wasn’t a delusion in my head.
While I’d rather be nothing in the dark
instead of being dead.

I swore I meant to get baptized
you ended up with my head under water,
just alittle too long that time
and it should be cold instead of hotter.
I fight against the rough waves
my arms reach out for you instead of splashing.
I prefer that method where I’m being saved
instead of receiving a verbal thrashing.

Rooted in ground, meant to settle down,
hiding under the rubble,
you’re not Sonic in the bubble.
While I’m bound to always maybe poke around
believe me I don’t want to cause trouble.
I’m not Sonic in the bubble.

I’ve always wanted a bigger bath tub
she craves to have a yard once more.
Everyday I trade both for a back rub
you ask “is your body even sore?”
I tell her who doesn’t feel some strain
and that her hands have always felt healing,
infact they cure almost every single pain
that I’ve had the misfortune of feeling

Hearing no sound, except the counting down
too far and deep in a puddle
you’re not Sonic in the bubble.
A trick I found is to always use a spin pound
straight from the knuckle,
I’m not Sonic in the bubble.

I only want the best chocolate
but I won’t pay for it out of pocket,
I expect a free taste to know if it’s worth my time.
Like picking doors and lockets
and sticking your fingers into sockets
it’s the type of thrill you don’t want to define.

He hides from life, he runs away,                                                            ­            
                                                                ­                                                   
 can't handle the strife of his everyday                                                         ­       
                                                                ­                                                        
       If he doesn't see it, it did not happen,
                                                         ­                                                     
feelings reserved, he's living on   rations                                                          ­                                                                 ­   
                                                                ­                                                  
Can't take the pressure, can't push
himself,                                              
          ­                                                                 ­                                           
out of his safe zone and into our hell                                                             ­       
                                                                ­                                                     
So easy to pull the covers over your head,                                            
                                                                ­                                                        
I would rather live in the light
instead                                                          ­    
                                                                ­                                                
One day he will realize, he's all
alone                                                        
                                                                ­                                            
within the walls of his safety zone

Where do the willows weep, that sacred place where tears are stored? Where does the pang of every heartbeat save a life from utter freefall? The willows know things, and they are so bored with our toils.You know it and ignore it; even now as you process it. But the willows won't weep because you aren't around to hear them. In our absence, they dig deep sturdy roots to bear down the weight of nothing and, yet, everything too.

What a wait to bare.

would i become
a sinner

if i would do something
out of my zone

is it this much easy
to label something