Pink Bullets.

It is an indescribable feeling, the cannotbeputintowords frustration, that just eats into you, until tears seem to be the only way out.
And then only a strange pair of eyes look into nothing and seek peace.
And a strange song with abstract lyrics understands you like a mortal never could, it seeps into those inner recesses evoking pain, anger, love, passion, grief, leaving you deloused, in that haze where each of those said feelings remain just that, submerged.
And then booms, amidst those tears, a hysterical laughter, a sardonic, pitiful laughter at the irony of it all. At the failed words reflected through the lyrics, not sung, but whispered, between spasms of lost breadth.
And relationships will be spoiled, over that one song. And loneliness will be spent in the arms of its simple E minor chords.
Life works that way.