In a world of me, the most I can do is buy myself flowers
Take the batteries out the clock and count the hours
To me, right is to wrong as night is to day
For an insomniac; the borderline slips away

I lie in a room of candles, with their flicker for conversation
They sing sweet songs of nostalgia, soundtracking imagination
I talk to the petals who smile at me in colours
Accepting uncensored confessions of momentary lovers

Or maybe they are nightmares, who am I to discern?
Heartache charges a pound for every penny I earn
Arriving for debt collection to take all I possess
I have nothing, except the life I live, maybe less.

In a world of me, where messages receive no replies
At least I can replace each flower as it dies
And if all the candles eventually burn their wax into decay
It won’t be as painful as smiling at you, to see you turn away.