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9 o'clock pm, night sky falls like rain, I take a deep breath, pull it all in, cuz the sun wont rise, on my dark lullaby, tears fall so hard, falls with the rain, you can hardly call it crying, when you're fighting this disease, this sickness of mind, try and push it up your sleeves, and you reach up to the sky to find, you're already gone, shadows dance on the wall, hope they don't find me, there is always a cost to being cured, now the illusion of time will chase me fast, cars fly by, with people inside, laughter and rhythm, drowns the night, their smiles wont fade, when the sign says dead end, and they've all got a secret, they tuck it into bed, conversation so plain, it burns into me, when all the things I want to say, are censored into bleeping, my screaming dissolves in artificial light, like writing buried in the ground, people walk all over, but nobody knows me, and the things I do for "Happy.." you can hardly call it crying, when you're fighting this disease, this sickness of mind, try to hide behind your sleeves, you can hardly call it dying, when you're counting to 203, holding your breath, trying to see, the color spectrum in your pillow, exploding into life.