Chapter 3: A Toast to the Hopeless and the Heartbroken
I lift myself up and wipe back my tears,
my cheeks are still pink with marks I won't ever be able to
clean,
I feel like raising a toast to the hopeless and the
heartbroken. Cheers.
I wish I could do something, anything to stop the pain,
my heart aches with an emptiness I can't even begin to
explain,
not an empty spot you can fill but more like a stain.
I sniff back my tears again, but it's no use,
they keep spilling from my eyes like puddles as I stagger to
the windowsill,
I can hear that odd whirling sound from the place where the
pane is loose.
It's ironic that it's summer outside, the cheerfulness hits
me with a slow burn,
through my breath fogging the window, the school grounds
look very much alive,
even if my world seems like it has stopped mid-turn.
Yes indeed, the real world is still spinning on,
with the carefree, with the joyful, with the lovers, and the
hopefuls,
and I guess I'll just have to keep holding on.
I clutch the windowsill tighter and gaze at the picture
perfect world,
the grass is glowing, the sun is shining, and all of this
happiness makes me want to cry again,
I don't belong there in the sunshine, oh, I want to die
looking at this dream world!
But reflecting in the lake is one shadow that doesn't fit,
it's darkness against the sunlight, it's dreariness against
the giddy bright.
and I'm thankful that there is something out there that
isn't sunlit.
It's the womping willow tree, the only one there to comfort
me,
because like me it is just sitting there not fitting in,
waiting for a sign, wasting life away,
but I don't suppose life or time matters at all to a tree -
or to me.
I lift myself up and wipe back my tears,
my cheeks are still pink with marks I won't ever be able to
clean,
I feel like raising a toast to the hopeless and the
heartbroken. Cheers.
I wish I could do something, anything to stop the pain,
my heart aches with an emptiness I can't even begin to
explain,
not an empty spot you can fill but more like a stain.
I sniff back my tears again, but it's no use,
they keep spilling from my eyes like puddles as I stagger to
the windowsill,
I can hear that odd whirling sound from the place where the
pane is loose.
It's ironic that it's summer outside, the cheerfulness hits
me with a slow burn,
through my breath fogging the window, the school grounds
look very much alive,
even if my world seems like it has stopped mid-turn.
Yes indeed, the real world is still spinning on,
with the carefree, with the joyful, with the lovers, and the
hopefuls,
and I guess I'll just have to keep holding on.
I clutch the windowsill tighter and gaze at the picture
perfect world,
the grass is glowing, the sun is shining, and all of this
happiness makes me want to cry again,
I don't belong there in the sunshine, oh, I want to die
looking at this dream world!
But reflecting in the lake is one shadow that doesn't fit,
it's darkness against the sunlight, it's dreariness against
the giddy bright.
and I'm thankful that there is something out there that
isn't sunlit.
It's the womping willow tree, the only one there to comfort
me,
because like me it is just sitting there not fitting in,
waiting for a sign, wasting life away,
but I don't suppose life or time matters at all to a tree -
or to me.
