Stricken in silence I barely hear a sound,
paralyzed in tears, it’s so dark underground,
upon its chamber the heart reveals a stain,
all night forever it beats, pumping the pain.
Profound realities the memory reflects,
open dream facilities, rewindable film effects,
only accessible in deep depths of thought,
occasionally surfacing to refresh that stain aloft.
Prince of teardrops is my name’s implication,
hearts in sorrow are burdenful complications,
the eyes are generators of teardrop disciples,
they tend to be casualties of endless flood cycles.
Tending to doubt and question my existence,
to accept your resemblance is my greatest resistance,
there’s really no difference so I’d devise an excuse,
you’re a bomb ticking down I dare not defuse.
The guilt freezes to ice, it never seems to melt,
will it override the dire wish I hold close to self,
you’re a pleasing disease which flows in me forever,
I don’t believe in God but I’m praying for help.
