"Iron"
my ribs are made of iron, theyâre always twisted up in knots. with twenty one years of rearranging, impatiently, you plead, âtry to open up, is it so hard to open up?â but itâs only getting colder; more difficult to breathe. did you hope that I would leave? âcause Itâs not that I donât want to, Iâd give anything to be free of this tomorrow. I canât force you to speak. If only I could relax myself while I drive, or lose myself in drinks and lights. sustain the idea that sometimes, you think of me. sapphire, you think of me. sometimes.
"Progress"
so hereâs to hoping that someday, something that I say will start to make any shred of sense. always unopposed and unnecessary. my thoughts making sure my hands wonât ever stop shaking. but all the words I use to calm my nerves, they have to spill and find a place to rest. anywhere at all besides my head, besides my head. anywhere at all besides my head. so Iâll avoid simple lines about you breaking everything because you still donât want anyone to think of you that way - while youâre speaking of grief, pretend to know how I feel, like I donât wake up every morning repeating the same old phrases: to let go, to have hope. to let go, have hope, and see through the pressure. it must be hard to convince yourself you know what I need. you should stick to catchy hooks and all those pretty melodies. stepping on anyone to achieve your selfish dreams, ripping friends apart at the seams, hoping that no one, no one sees. thereâs not much to say about my progress. so, howâs your progress? so, howâs your progress?