patron saint of all clipped wings.

verse/chorus/verse structure sucks. i'm bad at writing choruses/hooks. 

i wish i were as strong as i think i'm sincere
though i think it's much easier if i just disappear.
i'll return to the deep hole from where i emerged
and hide from the things i don't think i deserve.
i'll take all my affection and beat in out straight
into some form or shape to help unburden the weight.
as i'm consumed by the silence, i'll accept my defeat
but i can hear your ghosts still dragging their feet.

i have become the patron saint of all clipped wings,
still haunted by artifacts of songs that you sing.
your ghosts know every section of this fragile, old mind,
they sneak in uninvited as they're trying to find
all the reasons you construe truth into lies,
infest this hallow husk til the host body dies.
i'm lost in memories that are only fragmentary
but i think i've accepted that this is all temporary.

you thought i was dead, oh, how i wish it were true
but instead i always find ways to crawl right back to you.
i'm kicking up dust and stepping on cracks,
followed so aimlessly to help hide my tracks.
stomp out this virus before it can spread
and strip faulty images from my broken head.
i'm running on fumes, doing much worse than you know
and i've not felt at home since so long ago.

i have become the patron saint of all clipped wings,
still haunted by artifacts of songs that you sing.
your ghosts know every section of this fragile, old mind,
they sneak in uninvited as they're trying to find
all the reasons you construe truth into lies,
infest this hallow husk til the host body dies.
i'm lost in memories that are only fragmentary
but i think i've accepted that this is all temporary.

i think i've lost track of where to begin
because i'm still trapped within each and every web that you spin.
still strung along hard by the words that you spoke
but i don't find this funny so i guess i'm the joke.
i've got no self-control, i fuck my best friends,
i'm so sick and tired of knowing how everything ends.
grab all your of needles, spools and your threads,
and sew back together this hole in my head.

i am the patron saint of all clipped wings,
forever haunted by how i ruin everything
your ghosts are so sick of this fragile, old mind,
still searching for something that they'll never find
there's no reason you construed the truth into lies,
you infested like cancer and now the whole body dies.
i'm still lost in dreams so fucking fragmentary
i've still yet to accept that this is temporary.