Lord Lazarus

Writing for so long, forgot that I was living

Forgot that I was breathing, I'm merely existing

I think therefore I am, but all I'm good for is thinking

And all that time left in my mind just made me pompous and distant

Self important, sordid and so pretentious

Hate the fact that I took the pain and learned how to express it

I lost the will to kill myself, now I'm stuck with depression

Under all this self improvement lives much self resentment

There's a fine line between achievement and bereavement

And who's to tell the difference if you die before you see it

Sacrifice humanity, thought I already lost it

Rock bottom is death and I approach it way too often