There once was a man who couldn't commit. And he couldn't net met that he couldn't commit because he wasn't aware of it. And he woke up everyday feeling like shit, sick. In the heart and in the head he would just lie there and play dead. Well you know what? I'm still sick. No longer in my heart and not in my head but believe me I am still sick. I am just SICK of playing dead.
All that I want in life
Are the bags under my eyes
To start to weigh enough
To keep them open wide
At least enough for me
To see that I am half asleep
Alone in the driver seat
With nobody to save me.
When will I
Start to think that
Maybe I’ll be, Maybe I’ll be
Maybe I’ll be good enough for me.
I’m in a civil war with myself.
I’m a dead man walking
With his two left feet
Pressed firmly to the ground.
I simply cannot explain
All the flaws within my name.
But I think its biggest crime
Is having to call itself all mine.
When will I
Start to think that
Maybe I’ll be, Maybe I’ll be
Maybe I’ll be good enough for me.
I’m in a civil war with myself.
I’m stuck inside my body and I don’t recognize
The broken boy once in my mind who told me I’d be fine.
In his place is the truth,
In the end we’re all born to be…used.
I never thought that I would give into this
But that just goes to show my will to not
Exist in a world where I hide and I curl and I
Bend and I bend and I bend and I break. Snap.
