Eulogy

Oh, I hope some day I'll make it out of here
Even if it takes all night or a hundred years
Need a place to hide, but I can't find one near
Wanna feel alive, outside I can fight my fear

Isn't it lovely, all alone?
Heart made of glass, my mind of stone
Tear me to pieces, skin to bone
Hello, welcome home

Tear me to pieces. Skin to bone. That's all that's left of me. Bone. Skeleton. Empty. Empty like the echos that fill my house. My home. My home, it used to be full, alive, grand. Now it, like me, is empty.

Hello, welcome home. A home of my own making, of my own doing. "I built this home with my own two hands." I tore this home down with my own two words. Sleeping alone. Speaking alone. Living alone. Dying alone.

But isn't it lovely? All alone? Right. Lovely. Alone.

Maybe some day I will make it out of here. Out of the pain, out of the sadness, out of this place. But for today, for tomorrow, and for the unforeseeable future. I'm here. I'm here and you're there.

Trying desperately to find a place to hide. Drinks. Drugs. Sleep. They all give me temporary relief. Or do they? Is it really better? Or is this crippling sadness pushed down so deep that it manifests itself with triumph over every other thought or feeling I have. Sober. Drunk. High. It's all the same. It's always the same. There's no where to hide. It's only me.

This is my Eulogy. An empty man, with an empty home, and an empty heart.