I'm sick of writing music

sense, sugar, and the space between me and everyone else
you've never even phathomed the feelings i've felt
when the lonely days catch up with you
and the silence sinks
and the noises all melt

these carvings in walls with knives
and the drops of blood in my bed
hard to get your head around it
so you medicate me instead

maybe you need to be cut open
and stuck with these parts that make me bad
find these doors that, for me, are left wide open
and have the best time you've ever had

until you fall through the windows
and scrape up the floors under your feet
these pills are just pillows
making sure scars don't show
soaking up the blood that i bleed