Sometimes, there are more thoughts
 Than words to speak them.
Sometimes there is more will to live,
 Than to go on breathing.
These arms are almost too heavy to type.
Too heavy to move.
I don't know how to break out,
And I don't see _why_ I should break out.

It is cloudy, but I can just see people looking in;
And I can see those that gave up looking in.
And those that don't know how to break through.
And those that don't want to break me too,
 And so do nothing.

But I can't reach them, and I can't even speak to them
 - because there isn't anything I can say anymore;
Nothing that would be nice to hear.
Nothing that they haven't already heard.
Nothing that could say how I'm feeling.
 And besides, I know that no-one can help.

People think I expect them to help.
Wrong. Wrong.
I have this cancer, and they can't change that.
I've lost a limb, and they can't replace it.
Where I have no answers, they can't supply them.
But someone's got to stop my mind from
 Strangling my will to be.
Someone's got to stop me from killing me.
 And I know that no-one can help.

I am really two now.
Soon I will be totally catatonic.
I will be pre-birth,
Foetal.
And I will not respond at all;
I will make a womb in this box,
And I will close my eyes to the light,
And I will even expect the misery to be my mother;
Let it feed me.
Let it help me breathe.
Let it warm me, and speak to me.
And I will start to listen to myself.
And I will see how far back I can go.
And you'll never know,
 Because I won't be able to tell you.