Will I ever see the mountains or am I doomed to roam the flatlands?

There is a voice in my head that is only silenced by the scratching of my pen

We dreamt of a crappy apartment somewhereMaking love while we let the midnight airFlow through the open window, into our closed heartsLeft bitter from heartbreak and too much time apart

Friday night's alright for fightingSaturday, Sunday, Monday tooEvery night is a night of fightingWith family and friends like you

I'm sick of the images trapped in my headI'm sick of being preoccupied with the dead

Traveling down a road of self-destructionWith no room for any reconstruction

Starving artist: starving for affection, starving for attention