What makes me think that it’ll all work out in the end? Afraid to feel bad, better off to try and pretend I’m immortal. Immune to all that is wrong. Keep on wishing, crossing my fingers so long. Is this helping, I’m growing weaker each day. Can’t stop whining, to afraid of what I might say. All reactions, that controls us one and all. It’s mine, it’s pure and as decent as I can make myself, inside we all know— only the strong survive. So now I’m bleeding on myself yet once again. Seems I trusted another deceitful friend. My fault, I should have know the deal. Keep your friends close but your enemies closer for real. It seems easy, but nothing can be so hard. Trying to guess life’s dealings, what’s the next card? I’m surely folding, I don’t like this hand at all. It’s mine, it’s pure and as decent as I can make myself, inside we all know— only the strong survive. So maybe things happen for a reason. And wherein lies the answer, to over come the grieving? Of life’s unholy lessons, I’m handed in successions—it builds my pain which makes me strong. It’s mine, it’s pure and as decent as I can make myself, inside we all know— only the strong survive.