Cheap smiles and wilted bouquets 
full of Hemlock and Opium poppies
as if, with their torn dreams, 
this is what they and                        what I need...

not dreams.

I'm afriad to correct them,
but I need to explain
that I'll be dead in the morning,
and they'll hold me 'til the promise                     is not...

living.

I might try to argue
but I know they'll hold me underwater
until I fall and I breathe in smoke
in this world that is not real, because I know                     this...

is Hell.  



(c)  lenores_death