You Know What they Do
They pump you up.
You know why? Well they've probably never seen anything like you before. They see that spark and they want to keep it going. They've got a class full of empties, but not you, you're the star.
So you're fueled up on all these dreams of theirs, their well wishes, their hopes and encouragement.
You get to thinking, yeah I can do this, yeah I'm good! I'm the best, there's no way there's anyone better than me...
Of course then you realize...
You've got no soul
You've got no heart
You're not even alive.
You've only been existing in your puffed up little shell since the sun went down on your childhood
You look around, you look at the papers and not only do you realize you haven't done anything, but you don't have anything. Not inside, not outside.
The little fantasies you've been fueling don't amount to a hill of beans and you don't even like beans
And so you wind up sitting in your room at night ripping binders of papers to shreds and hitting reality with your forehead because you don't have anything else
You look at all that you've done and see the same thing the same thing the same thing you're stuck you're frozen
You know it
You're dead.
You're dead inside, you're dead.
There isn't a bit of feeling you can feel to put into anything.
It's all even and dead.
So you stop. Stop reading stop writing and you stay still, because corpses don't move.
You make them laugh. make them laugh because if they're smiling, they won't bother to look.
No one looks if they're laughing, you're good for a laugh. Entertainment.
That's all.
Because when they look, they see the corpse. Animated for a few hours a day, shuffling about, rotting, spreading the disease of reality.
No one likes those things. No one.
Retreating to its tomb to sleep, to dream, to fantasize of greener pastures and better days. To immerse itself in a tub of overflowing technicolor fantasy of noise and sound and images
Feeding on the brains and lives and smiles and memories of others
What else is there
You haven't got a thing of your own
You haven't got a thing of your own.
You know why? Well they've probably never seen anything like you before. They see that spark and they want to keep it going. They've got a class full of empties, but not you, you're the star.
So you're fueled up on all these dreams of theirs, their well wishes, their hopes and encouragement.
You get to thinking, yeah I can do this, yeah I'm good! I'm the best, there's no way there's anyone better than me...
Of course then you realize...
You've got no soul
You've got no heart
You're not even alive.
You've only been existing in your puffed up little shell since the sun went down on your childhood
You look around, you look at the papers and not only do you realize you haven't done anything, but you don't have anything. Not inside, not outside.
The little fantasies you've been fueling don't amount to a hill of beans and you don't even like beans
And so you wind up sitting in your room at night ripping binders of papers to shreds and hitting reality with your forehead because you don't have anything else
You look at all that you've done and see the same thing the same thing the same thing you're stuck you're frozen
You know it
You're dead.
You're dead inside, you're dead.
There isn't a bit of feeling you can feel to put into anything.
It's all even and dead.
So you stop. Stop reading stop writing and you stay still, because corpses don't move.
You make them laugh. make them laugh because if they're smiling, they won't bother to look.
No one looks if they're laughing, you're good for a laugh. Entertainment.
That's all.
Because when they look, they see the corpse. Animated for a few hours a day, shuffling about, rotting, spreading the disease of reality.
No one likes those things. No one.
Retreating to its tomb to sleep, to dream, to fantasize of greener pastures and better days. To immerse itself in a tub of overflowing technicolor fantasy of noise and sound and images
Feeding on the brains and lives and smiles and memories of others
What else is there
You haven't got a thing of your own
You haven't got a thing of your own.