Perfume

I've got that cold feeling once again,
I'm not good enough,
I don't mean as much,
I'm not worth loving;

and every lack of love,
just burns and twists,
on each inch of skin,
that burns as it does.

I would get a shovel,
and dig my self in,
but I'm weak from patches;
that never quite stop burning.

There's a field full of roses,
on a hill not to far,
I can see it quite clearly,
but it's red beauty is vast,

It spreads like bed,
laid and untucked,
that I could fall asleep in,
with someone I love.

If they'd come on up.
If they could show me i mean enough.

I tripped on a leg
somewhere a long the path,
i fell over forwards,
and felt sick as she laughed.

It lingered on her breath
that smells like the dead,
it seeped out slowly
and restrained as it does.

It interlocks my fingers,
and nestles in my neck.
I sort of feel sick.
I sort of feel dead.

What happened to the beauty,
her roses so pretty;
hung round her neck,
as the wind blew them gently.

I cant feel my fingertips,
they're numb and untouched.
They feel like a strangers,
and they move with their push.

I need to rid this cold feeling,
lift my hands up to the sun.
Check my vitals and breathing,
run, run, Run.