Nothing to say here

Talk

I don't wanna talk about it.
But there's no escape.
The only way to relieve this pressure on my chest
is to exploit what's underneath it,
Ask myself the questions I'm avoiding to answer.

What lies on the bottom of my heart?
And makes me breakdown and loose it?
What is it that keeps my conscience busy?
Makes me worry about this place stagnant
where I stand static?

I don't wanna talk about it.
Talking seems to make it all so real.
It takes away this vivid memory
of a perfect dream.
It makes me desperate, restless, anguished.
I wanted to seize it for a while longer.
Just for a while, before it's all over again.
But who saids I can?

Don't want to talk about it.
But can't help to think of this.
The thoughts come loose,
dazing through my mind.
I try to repress them, shudder them off,
focus on something else - but all's in vain.
The mind's alive and the conscience
has its own will, I can't control it.

-There's nothing to talk about, really.
Lier. You know talking is all there is to it.
And yet, you continue to refuse it.
So come on, keep up fooling them all,
but you won't fool me.

I'll just resume playing the same record,
over and over again,
Until you realize there's no point
in pretending not to know
all the lyrics to this songs.