get to the church light, i need to reaffirm with God that i'm none of his concern.
leave me in therapy, maybe someday i'll be okay, (or) fit for release.
but don't hold your breath, misguided notions of what i do best come to mind, leading me to see nothing except the back of that formal piece of shit. well i'm done, so convince someone else.
they're functionless. every part of a made up mess.
well if doc said to me that i'm not worthless, i bet that i can finally prove it; those fingernails are growin' into my skin.
trembling like a headache. i'm awake feelin' nostalgic; those pair of lenses know that my head is still talkin'.
i hope i sleep tonight. and i hope you keep fiendin' over the white and red miserable death pumpin' in your chest.
wasting away any trace of normal blood so the fingers feel drunk, erasing any prospect that the rest of life will feel less numb.
we'll make it out, it's been too many days,
we're all fed up inside our graves.
no we won't, i tried enough to know we won't.
give it up, i tried enough so give it up.
(we'll make it out, it's been too many days,
we're all fed up inside our graves.)
i've got my head back.
i've got my head back, again.
i'm thinkin' of the time when everyone was yellin' for us to stop bein' such pests. andy is outside looking at his insides, and alex moved out west. when you're alone eatin' your own throat, does it hurt, this much to laugh? talking to yourself and made up names, telling you "we'll be right back."
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