Lucky me,I get to sit here and watch everyone I love die,My mother,My grandmother,Me.Lucky me,I get to sit here and watch people fall apartLucky me,I get to sit here and die with them
Red sight blurs my vision,The needle falls, it’s done the killing,I scream again, a cry for help,But no one comes.Fresh tears fall, tear out my hair,Looking for pain to keep me there,Clinging onto life, I scream for helpBut no one comes.I pray to God to take me away,So tired of life I cannot stay,I plead for death I scream for help,But no one comes.
I’m in a cage,Back against the wall,Squeezed in a box,Feet on the side,I’m suffocating slowly,No one notices,I’m trapped in a cage,A freak on the show,For the demons in my mind,And still no one knows
Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave,Let me once know.I sought thee in a secret cave,And ask'd, if Peace were there,A hollow wind did seem to answer, No:Go seek elsewhere.I did; and going did a rainbow note:Surely, thought I,This is the lace of Peace's coat:I will search out the matter.But while I looked the clouds immediatelyDid break and scatter.Then went I to a garden and did spyA gallant flower,The crown-imperial: Sure, said I,
Nature -- the Gentlest Mother is,Impatient of no Child --The feeblest -- or the waywardest --Her Admonition mild --In Forest -- and the Hill --By Traveller -- be heard --Restraining Rampant Squirrel --Or too impetuous Bird --How fair Her Conversation --A Summer Afternoon --Her Household -- Her Assembly --And when the Sun go down --Her Voice among the AislesIncite the timid prayerOf the minutest Cricket --The most unworthy Flower --
If faithful souls be alike glorifiedAs angels, then my fathers soul doth see,And adds this even to full felicity,That valiantly I hells wide mouth o'erstride:But if our minds to these souls be descriedBy circumstances, and by signs that beApparent in us, not immediately,How shall my mind's white truth by them be tried?They see idolatrous lovers weep and mourn,And vile blasphemous conjurers to callOn Jesus name, and PharisaicalDissemblers feigne devotion. Then turn,O pensive soul, to God, for he knows bestThy true grief, for he put it in my breast.