I Have No Plan B, Just Panic Mode (Or, Surviving Suicidal Friends for Brainiacs)

Look at us,
empty shells of lies,
catching the breeze,
the azure skies.
I part my lips and here we are
back at square one.
We try and try and try again
to fool each other,
but who wouldn’t state the obvious
when your tears jam the exit key?
There are no morals, chess, or logic here.
We’re sick like animals in fear,
but who wouldn’t state the obvious,
when your blood slurs every word you say?
Is there any way I can phone a friend,
because it’s obvious you’re not living here?
You tell me to turn and look away,
you think you’re fine, that you’re okay,
but who wouldn’t state the obvious,
before you put your money where your mouth is?
I feel your lies hurt where it’s sore,
they taunt me, push me on the floor
and whatever I say must not be the password,
since I’m still buried here .
You’re like a rifle filled with suicide,
you’ll aim to rid yourself of the pain.
But I’ll never close my eyes again
to try to get you to believe.
I stutter like a broken record,
nothing gained but very ventured,
and who wouldn’t state the obvious?
If it would save you from yourself.