Cataclysmic visions, I get palpitations at night, I dream about some floating poet, then I get up and I write, And while I'm sure some write to feel content, and keep away the madness, the reason I keep doing this is to document my sadness,
When I'm awake, I'm losing self-esteem, but when I drift away to sleep I have these self-important dreams. So please, chase me up the stairs just one last time, nip me on the ankle, and tell me that we're find. Tell me that we're fine.
I know it's pathetic in a world with so much pain, I'm feeling sorry for myself but I can't seem to shake this shame, so I act like I'm impervious to the shit that's thrown my way, and I know I shouldn't care, but I feel hideous today.
When I'm awake, I'm losing self-esteem, but when I drift away to sleep I have these self-important dreams. So please, chase me up the stairs just one last time, nip me on the ankle, and tell me that we're find. Tell me that we're fine.
Would you believe it, Sylvia Plath and me, in a rubber boat, out at sea. Hunched against the cold; we were tired and we were old. We shared abridged biographies and told dirty jokes as our extremities started to freeze, clouds overhead, I hung on every word she said, she said "is it the sea you hear in me? It's dissatisfactions, or the voice of nothing, that used to be your madness" it'll soon be dawn, so hurry up and row, or is it that you've got nowhere else to go, I can see you lonely behind the eyes, I can see you, and in a sense, I used to fucking be you, and one day you'll be me, and maybe then you'll see, some boats weren't built to float, so hurry up and row...Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
