Why Don't You Get Dressed and Come Down?

Picking up pieces of myself after pointless searches for proof, and
The attestation you endlessly display leaves me with only one truth.
The dilemma I always allow me to face resurrects an immortal excuse:
The problem must be my lack of concern that it's you I choose to abuse.

Why don't you get dressed and come down here,
With these adversaries, these rivals, these foes, these
Merciless creatures, come here to hunt, come here to wrinkle your nose?
Expressing fear of their collective unclear, obviously to take up my time -
They're legends, like us, who think they've mastered the game,
Who stay at war in the forbidden borders of their mind.
All others believe the battle could end if I would just choose to be fine.
Sure as Satan could seat you at the foot of his throne,
I will come down, in time.

Spinning the hour glass of ice again in attempt to bury the awareness.
A single truth reiterates fear, just reminds me, more or less,
That I've been here before, a deja' voo, an overexposed picture in time,
A blurry representation of who I once was, outlined in murderous rhyme.

Oh, why won't I get dressed and go down there? Each time has been so cruel.
Hardhearted trolls searching for substance they then enshroud like fools.
Just imagine why I don't want to go down there: in your realm of the untrue.
I dread the lust of your freezing touch as every puff splits me in two.

So I put on my most elegant falsetto, and beat myself inward with each step.
When and where will I find myself then, and were you asleep as I slept?
Every day leaves me breathless from voicing the questions that always remain.
Every time I go down there, I wind up here, still sitting, still the same.