I'm still not writing.

All our friends are dead or dying
or just lying about their state.
I know right now I’m not thinking straight
and I’ll hate this for not making sense,
as we gaze at airplanes and graves
knowing we’ll end up there someday.
In the aftermath, we’ll all fail trying
and all our friends will be dead or dying.

All our friends are leaving us
without love or longing, only disgust
for whom we’ve trusted all our pains.
Our tears won’t fall, they’ll just dry and stain
the t-shirt of our favorite band,
but they’ve split up; we never saw them.
To fight this tendency we must,
but all our friends are leaving us.

And watching you waving goodbye
with a tear fighting on the corner of your eye,
leaves me with a smile that I can’t fake no more
and with the realization that we’re weaker alive.
And we look at ourselves hinting a glimpse of hope -
that this will be the last of those deaths we loathe -
while we clean the dust on the air of our throats,
but we’ll just cough, we won’t say a word.

My temper keeps boiling and boiling in the heat
on the lack of the warmth that you left in my sheets.
And you never knew how fucked up I was inside
and how I wanted to share all my grieves.
These ghosts will still torment me tonight,
in the smell of a flame and the shape of a dream,
and though it looks like I’m surviving,
I know that I am dead or dying.