so i remember when he used to call my name he used those letters that i wish i could forget it was never the tone of his voice or the people in his pupil s no not his choice it was something proper but whatever he was dying it was the summer suicide the sun was sinking into our moonlight and even when the night was blind we felt a ghost waiting by our suicide the summer suicide now it s december never useful so dead s my game now no one s cleaver not like he was i won t forget now i hear about the moon and the mind stealing hours mornings minutes eating pride now we re all proper but whatever i still cried it was the summer suicide the sun was sinking into our moonlight and even when the night was blind we felt a ghost waiting by our suicide the summer suicide
['screamo', 'skramz']