Sometimes you get what you ask for
A closed closet door
A slit wrist
Why would you wish your own away?
No one asked for the good times
But they came anyway.
No one ever welcomed these dead times
But they let themselves in anyway.
If you hum along to this melody
I think I could remember the words
About you and I making pinky swears
About you and I being blood brothers.
All the days get wiped away
By semantics and dogmas
That make us all hate each other
And help us feel better about it.
This is my final plea for a hand
Without love or family
A care without false qualifications.
Why is this family sickness accepted?
There isn’t much left for me to share anymore.
