This is not a cry for help
It is an exposition 
Of the Blessed Sacrament 
Of that which is not caught in the dream
And everything that it may seem 
I find there is a dagger in my heart
It catches my breath and I start
To breathe shallow and low
There are places I do not go 
Because of how it makes me feel
And somehow I cannot deal
With his web of lies
That he calls a mere disguise
Somewhere in the shatterproof glass
And as we crash I see the class
We used to frequent 
Die a slow death on what once heaven sent
Should I concede in being weak
It’s in every syllable he doesn’t speak
As he sits beside me on the bus
And I thought that I could trust
In his effervescent light
But the meaning of the word is spelt better than alright
As a saviour comes in once I open the door
Because I don’t want to feel this way anymore
Whether it’s in the halls of Dean Swift
Or a look I just received as a gift 
From the boy next door
I can’t explain if you don’t already know, mo stór