The dead Rose sits at the table,
Alongside my ancient book of fable .
Next to it sits my diary,
Containing secrets nobody knows
But me ,
I lay in my room as it shows,
Oh , I just wish to exist solely.
I let out a sigh,
As I acknowledge that time
Goes by and by.
Apathy\'s a tragedy
And boredom is a crime,
I escape from reality,
And fled to my fantasy.
Yet I sit with my dead eyes ,
The light inside of me dies,
And in a pseudo identity, I disguise.
I lay in my room,
And accept my doom.
As I wonder about death ,
And the ones who are dead ;
A blank expression on my face,
As a war goes on in my head .
Death now , doesn\'t feel strange,
More like a distant memory ;
Then I wonder if I am derange ,
And glance at the drooping flowers of ivory.