Everything Feels Fake (there is blood in nothing)

Not a mean drunk, but
a sad schmuck, and I'm
stuck inside my own head.

I'm not a madman,
but quite a sad man--
longing for timely death.

What lights could hope to
find our rites, and bring
them rightly to the fore

Of your consciousness;
some wandering bliss;
why search when there's no more?

Take me down into
these oceans of blue,
and rend me asunder.

If our lives are true--
if me, then you--let's
echo as the thunder.

In time, we will find
ourselves and our souls--
gone sour, gone crazy, gone

Towards some great end:
we're lonely (maybe
crazy) we're lovely,

We're friends.  Though we can't
claim divinity;
though we can't claim amends--

Let's fall down, now;
let's confound, now;
let's let this be the end.