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I am very tired of saying goodbye. When I look inside, I see a lot of things. Let's take a look.

The speaker reflects on lost dreams, growing up, and the past's persistence. "And even though the moment passed me by, I still can't turn away." "Because all the dreams you never thought you'd lose lost a long way." "Scars of souvenirs you never lose. The past is never far." "Did you lose you self somewhere out there? Did you get to be a star?" "Don't it make you sad to know that life is more than who we are." "Grew up way too fast. Now there's nothing to believe." "Reruns all become my history. The tired song keeps playing on the tired radio." "And I won't tell your name."

I work long hours for low pay, sacrificing my soul and wasting my life. I drown my troubles away, feeling trapped in this sad reality. It's a shame how the world has become for people like us. I wish I could wake up and escape this truth, but it's real. Living in a new world with an old soul, where the rich only know the rich.

I feel scared when I see the expression in your eyes. I want to say goodbye, but sometimes I want to fight. I need you now and I need you even more if you hold on.

You meet someone who’s almost perfect, and you spend your time trying to close the gap, but “almost” breaks your heart. They show up in December with a coffee-stained grin and say they aren’t good at romance but will try. They laugh about how the wrong ones rehearse, while the right one just stumbles through the universe. They stay up on Sundays debating about the stars, tracing constellations on the freckles of your arms, and you think it’s different and actually real. But different doesn’t mean it’s built to heal. They give you 60% of their heart, and you forget to mention they’re still playing games—the kind that hurt worse, where hearts are put in reverse. You make them a playlist of the songs that raised you, but they say it’s sweet and never play it. That becomes the whole problem “in a frame.” They almost loved you and almost stayed. You can’t even hate them, and the tragedy is that “almost was the plan.” The person teaches you that you’re worth more than a fraction of a soul. So you thank them for the almost, because it teaches you how to want the whole. They were almost right, and you’re learning.

I couldn't sleep, so I took a drive around Joburg and realized why I feel both fulfilled and lonely. I enjoy my trips and activities, but I struggle to find companionship. I keep hoping for a relationship, but it hasn't happened in seven years. No matter how hard I work or what I achieve, I still feel empty at home and in bed. All my emotions and thoughts seem trapped inside me.

I feel manic, like a flood overwhelming everything. I'm not here to make friends; I'm here to reveal how the world ends. The past is returning to confront you, crashing down like tidal waves, trapping you in fear. I'm the light in the darkness, an eternal spark amidst devastation. Energy surrounds you, reminding you of lost connections. Remember me as I linger like smoke, exhaling faster. You failed me, caught in a cycle of pain and fear, marked by struggles. The weight of memories and the clash of realities weigh heavily, but I remain a flicker of hope in the chaos.

I've walked the difficult path of fear, and I'm ready for any challenges that come my way. Through it all, I've come to realize the depth of my love for you, and it pains me to see you in pain. Just have faith and persevere, I won't let you fail.

Even though the moment passed, the speaker can't turn away because dreams and things were lost or thrown away. Now grown up, they don't belong to anyone, which is a shame. The speaker invites someone to hop beside them for a while, promising not to reveal their name. Scars are souvenirs you never lose, and the past is never far. The speaker asks if the listener lost themself or became a star, and if it makes them sad to know life is more than who we are. They grew up too fast and now there's nothing to believe. Reruns become history, and a tired song plays on the radio. The speaker repeats that they won't tell the listener's name.

I had to leave, feeling trapped in chaos. There's pain contained within the system, and I’m just a part of it, trying to navigate through it all. My emotions are evident; I’m disgusted by humanity and haunted by trauma that I can’t forget. It’s a system shock that lingers in my memory. I feel overwhelmed, drowning in emotions, struggling against the tide. I search for light but find darkness instead, trying to rise above it all. My spirit feels detached, and I wake up in fear, realizing I’m alone. I wish things were different, but I continue to fight through the blaze of my experiences.

You are not hidden. Your innocence has been shattered. I can hear you softly whispering your soul's desires.

Me and this wire, a test of will—I see the words in the air I breathe. Got to find the magic hidden in my sleeve. Show me what you got.

Birds and stars fall from the sky as angels dance and create dreams. They sprinkle magic, making dreams come true, just like me.

There was a secret chord that David played that pleased the Lord. Faith was strong, but proof was needed. Beauty overthrew you. Maybe there's a God above. All I ever learned from love is how to shoot someone who outdrew you. It's not a cry or a pilgrim who claims to have seen a light. I've been here before. I know this room, I've walked this floor. There was a time you let me know what's really going on below, but now you never even show it. I've done my best. I couldn't feel, so I learned to touch. I've told the truth. I didn't come here to fool you.

A young boy appears, a stranger to my eyes, strong in my pain with his fingers.

Why do birds appear when you’re near? They long to be close to you. When heartaches come, I wish to be the hero, but I walk away like a movie star. If you could read my mind, you’d see a tale of love and chains holding me back. The story is always there, but if you read between the lines, you’ll realize I’m struggling. I don’t know where we went wrong; the feeling is gone, and I can’t get it back.

I notice the absence of others around us. The silence between us is uncomfortable. Your gaze tells me that you don't reciprocate my feelings. I wish you would realize one day and express your love for me, or at least let me speak my mind. It hurts when I try to communicate with you, as if Cupid himself passes through and leaves me empty.

I often find myself spending lonely nights dreaming of a song, a melody that brings back memories of our love when it was new and each kiss inspired joy. Those days are long gone, and now I find solace in the stardust of the sun. Beneath the stars, the nightingale sings tales of paradise where roses bloomed. Though my dreams may be in vain, the memories of love will forever remain in my heart. This stardust melody captures the essence of our love, a refrain that lingers on.

The speaker rejects the idea of “turning the cheek,” describing themselves as the “pressure” building from silence that “can’t speak.” They say others want them “calm,” “quiet,” and “small,” but claim the version of them meant to “take the fall” is “dead, buried under the floor.” They describe having been “patient” and “kind,” and state that what follows is not a “cry for help” or a “reach for peace,” but “the sound of the pressure released.” They recount “every backstab,” “every lie,” “every sorry that was fake,” and “every promise” broken to “watch my spirit break,” then declare: “I’m not forgiving, I’m not forgetting, I’m not letting it slide.” They present themselves as “the consequence” and “the thing you can’t hide from,” calling for the beat and bass to shake and split the floor. They frame this as the “silent finally getting loud,” the “ghost of the night sky” stepping out of “the shroud,” and insist they are “not your savior,” “not your saint,” “not your friend,” and “the ending” that is “here,” “the end.” They describe mapping the heavens, navigating by stars, and trusting guides, but say the stars went dark, constellations flickered out, and they ended “on the other side.” They address “the darkest light,” treating darkness as “the only friend I got,” and say they sat down and whispered everything it “forgot.” They claim similar wounds in “same story, different person,” and reject the idea of the sky as a promise or light as a vow, saying the cosmos rearranges without explanation. They say they stopped looking upward and started looking in, finding “a kind of quiet that the light had never shown,” while stating, “On the surface I’m a king, but inside I’m a kid.” They say the stars were never anchors, only “temporary flame,” and they drift “through the wreckage of a sky” with “no destination, no direction.” They insist drifting is not a prison or cage, but “the turning of a long and solitary page,” and they whisper to darkness the things they never said: dreams left for dead, tears never shed. They say darkness “didn’t answer” and “didn’t care,” yet “just held the space” to let them bear “every shattered hope” and “every broken plan,” including reaching for light and returning with empty hands. They conclude that silence was the truest thing and that darkness wasn’t evil—“darkness was just sad”—leaving “it’s enough.”

Heartbroken. Broken. I took a cryptic bow. Heart broke. Broke. I took a cryptic bow.

I watch old clips and feel emotional, remembering a time when people were full of hope. I will never give up, even though I'm waiting, outnumbered by strangers, hoping you'll reappear among the ruins. Where did you and the others who were loyal go? I face hate and ridicule when I try to rally them, which hurts because I care deeply and would die for them. I'm stuck here waiting, outnumbered by strangers who want to erase every trace of our existence, making us believe we deserve it. As long as I live, I will try to reignite the fire in my people's hearts. Maybe one day you'll reappear from the ruins and join us.

In the morning sun, I feel your touch in the rain. When you're far, I long to hold you again. Your love keeps me warm in the breeze, showing me how deep it is.

Crops won't grow. Reduce the distance. Let's think first, desire doesn't die, it's suppressed. I can't be silent, bullets are fired. You inflict wounds, you make flowers bloom. You take advantage of a smiling face. When I remember, I pull the thirst from people's hands, I eat to my heart's content. One commits a crime, one endures a crime. Your connection is with small towns, why not save the farms from slums? So many wounds are healed, so many flowers bloom when you arrive. Whether it's the moon in the sky or the earth.

I can't escape, they keep pulling me back in.

Hello darkness, my old friend. I've come to talk with you again because a vision softly creeping left its seeds while I was sleeping. And the vision that was planted in my brain still remains within the sound of silence. In restless dreams, I walked alone. Narrow streets of cobblestone