Analyst of me: of course you have it right (but you'd be all wrong)

Help!
Forclosure!
Hope!
Bizarre pyramids falling out of place.
Smokers preaching the arrival of neon lights,
Everyone screams without understanding.

So don't tell me.
Don't make up words.
Can't be with or without,
Can't be sorrounded by myself.

Unique point of view,
with no other to compare.
Taking little steps,
Excessively naked.

And its all very futuristic,
Postmodern line of thought.
But no skin will ever keep it together,
when thrown into the fire.

The seconds before I sleep,
in the shower,
holding the steering wheel,
right when the laughter ends,
you keep knocking in, knocking out.

So don't tell me.
Don't make up words.
Sobs in the back of the head.
Holding on has never been an answer.

I'm the nextstepper!
Walking on film,
into the fire!
Exhaling neon lights,
breathing in desire!

Don't tell anyone.
Already missing the superunknown.
Aiming for your neck.
That is the answer.