Blueberry Life Rhapsody

I can't stand that feeling
when I wake up in the morning,
or in the dead of the night
A lonesome wolf sleeping over
always too afraid to hear stuff
godforsaken by the whole pack
pretending not to mind that, so
Why should I put my feet on the floor
when all the things are lukewarm and so cold,
just don't know what I know and you know
now that's the stressful sound somehow
cause I ain't leaving my nest
to idly fly away high,
through this dim landscape painted with tears,
some blood and my lust;
where is that love I was promised long ago,
I'm eager to know
Underneath my veins?
No, I don't think so.
Or maybe... can be?
This thirst for thrills
that I feel up this hill
I can barely hold with my fists...
I know man,this must be it!
Smothering softly this pain
within with the pillow I made
from the skin of all those poor lips I had to kiss,
but in this world there's no place
either for cravens nor dead,
I wanted you to call me home,
playing the trumpets when you got close to me
perceive how the surrounding sky
falls down to the earth,
trying to trample the cornerstone of our love,
where hides the hideous murderer
of lambs of gold, he's grown so old,
I fold my arms and sit close to the bonfire
but I can't see shit cause it's expired
from the alibis weaved and donned down my spine.
Remember the bodies
of all those phoney sluts and pimps
trying to escape and run away, fly, high, oh my...
from this puddle of piss
dripping from the pipes while the sun dies
out in the horizon he hides
from the main stream of conciousness
which comes full of despair and pain
I should've given away
long ago to the first vagabond, hobo, bum,
reflection of my inner most
people who's always been in the way,
they put us away, wipe our tears far,
far away from this scene.
Cause life can't be a parody
for dreams are what they're meant to be,
I try to see it more like a rhapsody
of irony, hypocrisy and courtesy.
So c'mon girl, don't tell me you can't see
through the smokescreen
floating
in thin air,
feeding bones to them
So "what the hell means this life?" you ask me,
haven't you realized
we're just puzzle pieces to remain,
lost mementos of the poetry
of the sensitive and stark reality.