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Walking down the street with strange techno beats, and I'm still trying to figure out why this rhymes.Emotional spins and crazy dreams of whatever the hell means life.
Melting ice.
Melting hope.
My future is washed away.
We're digging holes to china town in hopes of making the grade. We've written down ridiculous amounts of repetitive feelings, that only make sense to your one-time-on-this-earth mind.
Zeus is calling your name, pounding on your not-so-free-freedom.
Let's pick up your un-filtered cigarettes and get to the real reason we're got fucked up lungs. The world is harsh, so let's make terrific use of what these blobs of color stand for.
They say you're just a little too smart for your own good.
My own good.
LIFES OWN GOOD.
Let's set fire to your fake-ass attitude towards the way you've fucked over everyone else. You might be special, but welcome to reality, your neon dreams aren't playing the right tunes. We're all tired of the spiraling screams of sorrow. It's too late for you. You're an attention whore, and it's your turn to walk the plank.
It's time to notice I'M TOO PRETTY FOR THIS WORLD.
Justice has been served with a glass of scotch in your right hand. I write my owns books, even though my thoughts have novels. The clock is ticking, dear.
Tell me. Can you save yourself?
It's the apocalypse. End of time.
Life ain't so peachy anymore. Twists and turns, obsticles and illusions. It's your time to fly.
The smoke is rising and it's a little too hard to breathe. Love just might be too much to handle. Those sunflowers aren't so sunny, and now it rains. Let's kiss and make up. Maybe all your ranting and raving costs us something here. The tears you cry didn't mean shit since everything you've said has flooded our intermost emotive outlooks.
Maybe you don't make that much sense.
You're kicking away the dirt at your shoes, and now the pain begins.
It's time to chill-out and mellow down.
Give me a pen and let's drain out our thoughts. Jefree Star is jealous of every word we have to say. Maybe even for the better.
Your phone is vibrating. Maybe we should let the voicemail pick it up.
You make up your own words so others may think you're a one on the intelligence scale. I won't feel the least bit sorry for you. I let so much shit slip past me, but I will not let you brainwash me. I cannot understand the mixed signals you've sent. It seems we all think a little more than expected.
We've got martini's in our hand and you're drinking away life.
WILLY WONKA'S MADE A NEW CANDY, AND YOUR NAME IS INSCRIBED IN THE WRAPPER.
You think you're witty and cute, but either way, I'll be the conceited little bitch that I am to say
I'M STILL BETTER THAN YOU.
Your dramatic affect on the hopping mushrooms bring a smile to my surgeon-worthy silhouette. We may need some bug spray. It's becoming more and more cloudy.
Thank God for Victor Frankenstein,
WE MAY HAVE CREATED A MONSTER.
Cancer. Cancer. Cancer. Cancer. Cancer. Cancer.
We're dying slowly.
We're all a day late, but you're one year older. And maybe half the intelligence.
You roll your not-so-appealing eyes at everything I have to say. When, quite frankly, I could care less. As long as I get my not-so-meaningful point across.
Humanity is expensive.
I'm running out of money.
Flying seaguls are slowly chipping away at my shoulder.
We're under the influence of blacklights. We're safety pinning back your cold heart Let's stitch up our emotions and realize LIFE ISN'T AS BAD AS IT SEEMS.
I don't agree to this whole "shut up, she's mad" deal.
Sorry that wasn't as psycodelic as it should have been.
Your eye-rolling, sonic combusting
BOOM.
Butterfly regurgitations. You have one sick mind with the drugs laced up your nose. And now you have the balls to ask me if I need a smoke.
TIME EXPLODES.
Melting ice.
Melting hope.
My future is washed away.
We're digging holes to china town in hopes of making the grade. We've written down ridiculous amounts of repetitive feelings, that only make sense to your one-time-on-this-earth mind.
Zeus is calling your name, pounding on your not-so-free-freedom.
Let's pick up your un-filtered cigarettes and get to the real reason we're got fucked up lungs. The world is harsh, so let's make terrific use of what these blobs of color stand for.
They say you're just a little too smart for your own good.
My own good.
LIFES OWN GOOD.
Let's set fire to your fake-ass attitude towards the way you've fucked over everyone else. You might be special, but welcome to reality, your neon dreams aren't playing the right tunes. We're all tired of the spiraling screams of sorrow. It's too late for you. You're an attention whore, and it's your turn to walk the plank.
It's time to notice I'M TOO PRETTY FOR THIS WORLD.
Justice has been served with a glass of scotch in your right hand. I write my owns books, even though my thoughts have novels. The clock is ticking, dear.
Tell me. Can you save yourself?
It's the apocalypse. End of time.
Life ain't so peachy anymore. Twists and turns, obsticles and illusions. It's your time to fly.
The smoke is rising and it's a little too hard to breathe. Love just might be too much to handle. Those sunflowers aren't so sunny, and now it rains. Let's kiss and make up. Maybe all your ranting and raving costs us something here. The tears you cry didn't mean shit since everything you've said has flooded our intermost emotive outlooks.
Maybe you don't make that much sense.
You're kicking away the dirt at your shoes, and now the pain begins.
It's time to chill-out and mellow down.
Give me a pen and let's drain out our thoughts. Jefree Star is jealous of every word we have to say. Maybe even for the better.
Your phone is vibrating. Maybe we should let the voicemail pick it up.
You make up your own words so others may think you're a one on the intelligence scale. I won't feel the least bit sorry for you. I let so much shit slip past me, but I will not let you brainwash me. I cannot understand the mixed signals you've sent. It seems we all think a little more than expected.
We've got martini's in our hand and you're drinking away life.
WILLY WONKA'S MADE A NEW CANDY, AND YOUR NAME IS INSCRIBED IN THE WRAPPER.
You think you're witty and cute, but either way, I'll be the conceited little bitch that I am to say
I'M STILL BETTER THAN YOU.
Your dramatic affect on the hopping mushrooms bring a smile to my surgeon-worthy silhouette. We may need some bug spray. It's becoming more and more cloudy.
Thank God for Victor Frankenstein,
WE MAY HAVE CREATED A MONSTER.
Cancer. Cancer. Cancer. Cancer. Cancer. Cancer.
We're dying slowly.
We're all a day late, but you're one year older. And maybe half the intelligence.
You roll your not-so-appealing eyes at everything I have to say. When, quite frankly, I could care less. As long as I get my not-so-meaningful point across.
Humanity is expensive.
I'm running out of money.
Flying seaguls are slowly chipping away at my shoulder.
We're under the influence of blacklights. We're safety pinning back your cold heart Let's stitch up our emotions and realize LIFE ISN'T AS BAD AS IT SEEMS.
I don't agree to this whole "shut up, she's mad" deal.
Sorry that wasn't as psycodelic as it should have been.
Your eye-rolling, sonic combusting
BOOM.
Butterfly regurgitations. You have one sick mind with the drugs laced up your nose. And now you have the balls to ask me if I need a smoke.
TIME EXPLODES.