I still believe in fairytales and pots of gold
then again I have to remind myself to breath
I tend to get lost within the pages of a dream
its my escape from the grind as the wheels turn
I hold onto the little things I've created alone
perhaps to guide me through another shade of agony   
its the cure that plagues me now and not the virus
the what if and if only's of my every day inabilities
and when the loneliness becomes to much for me
it seeps out my pores staining the world surrounding
my walls have collapsed yet I alone try and rebuild
I think I can I think I can nah fuck it whose got the time
I'll just listen to the wind as it tells me a story  
and fade within the background of another gray day