Prophet

It will never stop
'Cause it's me,
And it's less than what it's shown.
The things inside bloom ugly,
I am all about the charade.

Amuse them for a little while
Until it hurts and they can't run away.
They come here drawn by the impression
But it is not enough to match reality.

I guess they must know it all,
'Cause they think they can dig in.
But it is me,
And the things I hold on to, so jealously, 
Dwell like a tumor in my will.

I am an angry girl,
And it is hate which rules my life.
I've been reduced to the fears;
The things I cannot change,

They grow into a spiral staircase.
Rejected feelings scattered all over.
I can't go up,
I can't go down.
I try, but I trip,
And it's all like it was before I even walked.

I am not expecting to give you butterflies,
It's only this idleness I can expose.

Don't act like you've missed me.
Three days from here you'll wish I'd never returned.