I hate this room...

[Spook]

This glass is caked in dust
It hasn't been washed in ages
Drifting in midair are the old, worn pages

I had thrust them in the air
To see my secrets fly
But as I look out a window at a blurry world
I've forgotten why

Maybe it's the heat of the moment
That sent me running, knife in hand
Or the blood-spots on the floor
As I dreamt of a far-off land

Maybe they'll be happy now
My white-hot mind presumes
Blurry window, flying pages
I can't help but to hate this room

I hate them too, I hate them
But I hope they're happy now
I contradict my sleepy conflict
And my pages are drifting down

On each page is a single word
Of the pages there are four
And now my eyes my eyes are a deathly blue
And the pages are on the floor

As I leave this musty room
The syringe saying it's last goodbye
Blurry window, blurry door
Blurry wall and bloody floor

They find the last words I said when I was through

I really hate this room...