Bedlam in the Asylum

When you go to pieces each night, every morning
leaving me little chance for any hope of warning,
you crumble and decay, and blame it all on me,
and find that anxiety prevents your own mourning.

When the granules dissolve from your fingertips
and decomposition sets in on crushed lipstick,
you circle old streets with cracked concrete
until the dying sun leaves you in an eclipse.

When you go to pieces each night, every morning
leaving me little hope for any chance of warning,
you collapse and decay, and blame it all on me,
and find that disquiet prevents natural mourning.

When discord wraps your throat and tightens down,
when lies flood your mouth with a plan to drown,
when you lay in bed with the bedlam in your head,
I'll be waiting here for you to die in this town.

When I go to pieces every single, sodden night
leaving me the only chance for feeling delight,
when I tumble and stray, I find peace within me,
and the final moments before I black-out...I'm alright.