running yourself on empty is never a good idea.

the owl hoots a sweet and pretty song, i count the notes on my teeth that leave their beaks.
the skin underneath my fingers tingle the way it use to.
this is what we've being looking for. a sonnet to the storms to guide the way.
my dear, i'm screaming at the skies to bring you back to the way you were
and while you cried out for me to stop, i couldn't help but hear the fear in your voice my dear,
why didn't i stop?
the colour of your face bled out and coloured the landscape,
i could see the eyes of creatures for miles going on and on and on.
it's a nerve-racking feeling, being starred upon by so many hungry eyes, waiting for any sign of weakness.
i have to obide by the script, like a sick shakespearean tragedy
and by crack of dawn, we'll both be lying dead on the stage, listening to a standing ovation
but why?
pretty songs with pretty notes. pretty words in pretty boats.
i could be swimming in you but instead i'm drowning.
instead i'm drowning.