What is it where, in the death pleasure of my life mess
Like the finest bleached white couldn't make me feel new or clean
The best,
know how to be cruel and choose to not know it, it seems.
What's just an acronym to you is a bit more to me than just GAD or PTSD
Until you're juggling with whether or not to be a Felo de se
Don't talk to me,
because sometimes I feel like there are a million of me in my way.
You know I'm the most qualified to whisper in your ear
Because I'm no stranger to bullets, bombs and guns
Eschatological fears,
I just won't be finished loving you until I'm done.
One of these days I'm going to get me some lasting peace
Until then it's all I've ever known; square peg/round hole.
The deceased,
know more about life than you could ever know.
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