The old me was funThe old me cared for others too muchThe old me was colourfulBut the old me was silly and naiveTo think that I could keep up my facade in a world like this.
Fourteen years of rebellionFourteen years of aimless shots at lifeFourteen questions yet no reasoningFourteen opportunities with equal regretsAnd it's finally hereFour powerful words"I finally made it!".
How is it soThat there are two parts of every storyYet everyone seems to always know just oneWhat happens to the other partIs it to be forgotten and justice put to nothingOr does it not matter that the other person is hurtingIt's doesn't matter, does it?
Consulting summer's clock,But half the hours remain.I ascertain it with a shock --I shall not look again.The second half of joyIs shorter than the first.The truth I do not dare to knowI muffle with a jest.
Oh Sumptuous momentSlower goThat I may gloat on thee --'Twill never be the same to starveNow I abundance see --Which was to famish, then or now --The difference of DayAsk him unto the Gallows led --With morning in the sky --
Behold, as goblins dark of mienAnd portly tyrants dyed with crimeChange, in the transformation scene,At Christmas, in the pantomime,Instanter, at the prompter's cough,The fairy bonnets them, and theyThrow their abhorred carbuncles offAnd blossom like the flowers in May.— So mankind, to angelic eyes,So, through the scenes of life below,In life's ironical disguise,A travesty of man, ye go:But fear not: ere the curtain fall,Death in the transformation sceneSteps forward from her pedestal,Apparent, as the fairy Queen;