Oh, how these days turn me gray at the follicles.
Tryin' not to swallow, but I'm findin' it's impossible.
Fallow fellows force-feedin' false truths, and I'm hollow,
Wallowin' in weary nights: crash the moon like Apollo.
And oh, how these blues construe the hues of gloomy skies.
Pale black of the night aligned with bags under my eyes.
To my surprise, to my chagrin, my lens is scratched and failing fast.
Can't see my shining past through all this dreary overcast.

...

Oh, how these weeks keep me from sleep with bleak uncertainty.
Eternity just burns in me. Fever dreams heat fervently.
A thousand cloud enshroud me down. I misbehave and crave the crash,
Straining to be staining glass, but outside it's just dust and ash.
And oh, how these weeks fucking shriek like a tourniquet.
I can't beat back the nervousness when I think how much worse it gets.
These Grade-A gray days: a grim haze of turbulence.
That's when I close my eyes to peek inside my mind's circus tent.

...

What's next, what's next? Think I'll run away from home.
Travel with the dancing lights beneath the striped dome.
But oh no, there goes my high, high hopes.
No matter where I am, I'm always walking fucking tightropes.