The rain outside patters again, but it doesn't matter.
I'm objectively in love with my room; I hate to presume.
It's very dry here, but at least I hold my lust without fear.
And as long as I remain still, my body will never fall ill.
Sometimes I go out to eat since I still have two feet.
Sometimes I lay in the dark and memorize the black marks.
And though I fail to remember the last time I enjoyed my pastime,
at least I know when the time's up, cause now I'm a grown-up.
When the streets go quiet and the people are too tired
to face the demons who taste worse than lemons,
I would ease the sore on my neck and take a long, long break,
then talk to my crowded head and implore it to go to bed.
So if the rain outside patters again and it still wouldn't matter,
I would taste its honest tear and pretend it was a cold beer.
Cause when I get drunk in oblivion before I can ask one more question,
I can love the ignorance and dismiss my mangled countenance.
As long as I still know how to love,
Who's to say it is never enough?