The Things We Don't Talk About

I Open My Eyes

I open my eyes,
and I hear the lies.
'Okay' is such a relative term.
It's a contagious germ.
Whenever you're upset in any way,
everyone says, "It'll be okay."
How do you know?
How do you believe it won't all go?
How do you have faith
when the world's filled with hate?
It's a horrible place to stay
when your days turn grey.
You no longer see the rays of hope.
And you no longer cope.
And you keep sliding down that dark, dark slope.

I open my eyes,
and I put on my disguise.
I'm happy and full of life.
I put on a jacket and hide the knife
of emptiness, of nothing, of stolen joy—
that knife whose purpose is to destroy
the hope we hold dear.
Because without it, we disappear.
It sucks the life straight out of the source,
stronger than any other fucking force.
And what can you do?
The theory is true,
at least to a point:
At the end, we're all joined
by the Grim Reaper,
the death keeper.

I open my eyes,
and wonder why?
Life is a great big fucking joke.
We live a meaningless life and then we croak.
So why does any of it matter?
Why are we put here—for laughter?
Because, honestly, if everybody is destined to die,
why do we fight so hard to stay alive?
And I know you may think I'm very pessimistic,
but I'm not the one who's sadistic.
The one who invented this devastating game,
that's the one who should take all the blame.
Because I'm a realist and from where I stand,
we have all been seriously damned.

I open my eyes,
and I see the rise
of pain, hunger, and whatever else.
If it's all in vain, then what the hell?
Why have people suffer,
why make their lives tougher
if it means nothing at all?
There is no reason that I can recall.
Life is a long timeline of pain,
then we die, and nothing's gained.
So, how can you say
everything will be okay
when there is zero evidence
of natural benevolence.
I open my eyes,
and I no longer rise.