I'm Sorry, NovaI'm afraid to pick up the guitar on my ownThe last one I knew to pick up a guitar and sing their heart outhad it burst up out their throat and strangle themuntil all that was left was a shell of themselvesand that shell took what was left of their souland dragged it down to hell, leaving their heart behindI knew their heart, and I glimpsed their soulbut I couldn't see their entire wholethrough the gaps in my understanding of myselfAnd I've never gone down to the slabs to seeFor myself what's left, or eulogyI'm afraid of what I'll findOr what they'll recognize in meThe pain of the world they left behind a near certaintyAnd I like the idea of the metaphorical deathan idea of rebirth and changebut I'm truly afraid that should I go therethey'll see in me a mirror to themselvesa future "them" they could have beenand they'll try to finish the jobof annihilating the person they used to be.