Making Contact

Parisitic feeling from the inside out
Waiting for the best of times
to slowly pass me by

Everybody else was right
the ones inside my mind
running through the night to a child's lullabys

Preemptive disappointment,
A realist point of view
Premeditated cancer of a child left confused

searching for an understanding
purging from the booze
A certain brand of lethargy, from certain kinds of brews

Tired souls seek mirrored walls
for conference and for cold compress
Hand in hand and face to face
My eye is clouded by my breath...

"whatever mistake, whatever it takes"
I run my fingers through the mist
It's unclear now; what was my face
I cup my eyes for darkness' sake