I fade to grey, I suggest you turn away.

My oxygen depletes or I should say it burns low.

Once a picture laid now an old cameras memory it will stay.

Now and I don’t know how the camera deletes me, so who am I to be?

Just another generation blowing away, to be forgotten in the futures today?

I’m sewing my mind to find who I am supposed to be.

I’m never free i’m in resume to the people who have applaused me, but paused in my room, all alone.

Why do the things I hate bloom like a flower in my head and stay there, whilst what I enjoy has the opposite effect.

I hate my photographic memory. Yeah, fuck you camera, stop playing with my emotions i’m not a toy.

I’m a photograph and i’m fading away, everyday, but I won’t forget to wave, i’ll be an ocean.

Maybe then I won’t be so broken.

Through history we’ll all be forgotten and unspoken of, or at least specifically spoken of.

I took an oath that the camera in my head will be kept a secret.

Don’t ask questions.