The Only Immortal Thing

There is no translation
For the things inside my head
And no will ever know what’s missing
When I wind up dead
And all my books are empty
Because I never knew the words
And all I try is sickening
Because it’s never more than thirds
Of what might be enough
When we’re all resigned to drowning
‘Cause the ocean’s just too rough
It’s a fact of life
The only immortal thing is doubt
And if I can’t ever win
All I can do is shout
But what use is voices in a chorus
Of silent, desperate screams
And if they’re all that I can hear now
How can I not know that I can’t change things?

Immature

Does it make me immature
To always play the fool?
Does it make me somehow less
To play by your own rules?
Am I supposed to make it out
Like what is said is not a wall?
Am I supposed to never cry
Or feel anything at all?
No matter if I hear anger
In every other breath;
No matter if my father
Jokes of his own death;
No matter is supposed to be
Beyond my reckoning:
I’m supposed to somehow know this world
That I have never seen.
To know the foolishness of man —
Is that maturity?
If so, I’ve had my fill
And I beg you let me be.