My hair is such a mess, just like me. I haven’t dyed or washed or brushed it in months. He looks dead and trampled. He looks like a matted coin left at its own luck at the gutter. My soul is such a mess, just like my hair. It’s not up to the folks, not visible and shining, it’s just a sad point inside myself. But it’s there and it’s such a mess. She cries desperately at the nights, non stop. She spin around good looking problems and smile, so sad, so small. My eyes are such a mess, just like my soul. They’re the only door, you know? The only way you’d tell my soul is my hair. But I’ve got my glaze on the floor, in the yellowish old sheets, in the musical notes dancing around the painted black corners. They look so deeply lost inside me, hiding beneath fragile eyelashes and dark circles hurting my fair skin.

And there’s the tiredness. She reflects, shines, glares. In my hair, in my soul, in my eyes, in my days, in my broken mirrors, in my dusty windows. She pulls me down and she’s my special friend. My only friend. The one that’ll be here ‘till the end. Holding me down, oh, Tiredness. We should hang out more often, be better friends, we’re so into each other.

But I’m such a mess, just like my hair.