call me 555...

I feel my life like a 555
can't find, nonexisting, I can not describe
why I have a crush, a love, but lack life
I fear my present, but yet it'll surfice,
why I have problems, but lose in them care
my lungs, burnt, and flooded of others air,
why I care of others opinion
but hate myself if I let it set in
why I have depression as a satelitte
I laugh, and joke with out fear of its flight
why I ignore my teen angst until 3 a.m.
when I know all be up all night alone again

I feel my life like a 555
as day progresses, I'm less alive
because I've observed laughter after death
and I laugh along in one generic breath
because why be a dead soul, at end of joke
my humor, remains my depression's cloake
I'm nearing now a spontanious end
I'm in this situation of platonic a friend
seen in my conscience, fake, and shattered
mind of mine runied in tatter

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