Schizophrenic
And I can’t write because there’s nothing to complain about, to rant about, to tear myself apart about. Yet you keep killing me because there’s so much to complain about, to rant about, to tear me apart about. Maybe this will be an empty story, kind of like what goes on in your head. Maybe this will be an epic tale, if I get around to it. Letters and digits keep falling from my pen, the moment it stops I’ve got something to face - so I keep on writing. This song’s got no rhythm or rhyme, no set aabb or scheme. Talentless; yet so full of things to express. This seems the most complicated. So I’ll do it.
I’ve managed to do another three-sixty, turning a meaningless entry with nothing to write into a statement. I guess it’s just one of my talents, aren’t you impressed? I hope you’re impressed. I’m a rubix cube wrapped in a word puzzle, won’t you write on me and turn me over? I’ve been aching for someone to tell me I’m worth something: won’t you put a price tag on me? Stock me up on your top shelf, like that ballerina jewelry box you forgot you stole from me when we were young. Metaphors and analogies never seem to fail me. Hey look sugar, it’s a love song.
You only have as much power piss me off as I let you have. So why do I let you have it? I let you have it. You abuse it like an Axis leader, it makes you feel bigger. Step on the little guy, win the race. I’m the turtle in your twisted fable, except this time I don’t win - I retreat into myself for fear of getting kicked. The ends justify your means; You’re so mean. I sound juvenile, but that’s what you are: You’re a jerk, you’re stupid, you don’t have any friends. There I said it, and it feels good too. Check this out, I'm angry now.
This started off empty, a distraction for my hands to keep them from shaking. But hey, it’s artwork, at least one can hope that’s what you call it. Trash it, tear it apart, I don’t really care. It’s a temporary release for my addled skull - you just had your first tour. Next time, bring your friends - it’s hard for me to make them. Bye-bye, baby.
I’ve managed to do another three-sixty, turning a meaningless entry with nothing to write into a statement. I guess it’s just one of my talents, aren’t you impressed? I hope you’re impressed. I’m a rubix cube wrapped in a word puzzle, won’t you write on me and turn me over? I’ve been aching for someone to tell me I’m worth something: won’t you put a price tag on me? Stock me up on your top shelf, like that ballerina jewelry box you forgot you stole from me when we were young. Metaphors and analogies never seem to fail me. Hey look sugar, it’s a love song.
You only have as much power piss me off as I let you have. So why do I let you have it? I let you have it. You abuse it like an Axis leader, it makes you feel bigger. Step on the little guy, win the race. I’m the turtle in your twisted fable, except this time I don’t win - I retreat into myself for fear of getting kicked. The ends justify your means; You’re so mean. I sound juvenile, but that’s what you are: You’re a jerk, you’re stupid, you don’t have any friends. There I said it, and it feels good too. Check this out, I'm angry now.
This started off empty, a distraction for my hands to keep them from shaking. But hey, it’s artwork, at least one can hope that’s what you call it. Trash it, tear it apart, I don’t really care. It’s a temporary release for my addled skull - you just had your first tour. Next time, bring your friends - it’s hard for me to make them. Bye-bye, baby.