Making deals with the dead

Patience runs thin,
in the state of mind I'm in.
Birds fly low,
and the cards never show.
Fake perceptions of what I thought was so real,
now seeing it's not, I'll have to make a deal.
All this time it was known,
all this time, and I still haven't grown.
I'm not what you signed off on,
you'll see that I lied, and did everything against it under the sun.
I didn't hold up my end of the deal,
and now wandering around, selling my soul for a meal.
Nothing more pitiful that a child running from nothing,
but all this time I thought it was something.
And now, as I sleep in my bed,
all I do is stay up all night, and make deals with the dead.