The Storm

I've grown weary of the world,
the abstract and the narrow.
I cannot distinguish between what's trivial and meaningful.
I feel my youth dissapear,
the crude layer of film
worn to conform and fit in
is slowly becoming my natural skin.
True feelings are lost, buried within,
you can not get in.
You can not get in.
I am a man conflicted,
troubled by these thoughts,
worried that surely I have lost the plot.
Struggling to find purpose, longing to be loved,
inside I feel tormented, decieved, and crossed.
What am I to do, to say, or to think?
Surely, there are others who feel just like me.
But if you feel as I do you are not willing to talk,
because you know there's nothing worth saying
that's not already been said.
There's nothing left to do but go through the paces
as the storm outside gathers and rages.
Yes, the storm outside gathers and rages,
and the trees on the hill top do their best to stand tall.
The storm gathers and rages,
and one day they shall fall.