Grey is the border line of life
The border between fact and fiction
where one goes when sickened by sadness and strife
to ponder the meaning of their creation
I sit here now on an air plain
grey decorating the walls, wing and weather
my mind in no man's land, like sliding down a drain
Floating in these high clouds, as light as a feather
I remember a time with laughter and fun
But now my head is as slow as shifting sand
I have heard of Goth's, how their depressed and dumb
Perhaps I should surrender to a greater power and join the ranks of the lost and the dammed.
People screaming at me to put a bullet in my head
but my friend tell me how can i shoot myself if im already dead.