I wasn't impressed
When you said you were depressed
Anyone can tear their jeans
From pages in magazines
You say you hate ... yet recreate
I wonder if there's something you could ever say
In your defense

Life can't be a fuckaround
Unless it's knocked you to the ground
But when you hit the deck
It's 'cause you tripped yourself up
On words you didn't get ... and lies you couldn't make
I wonder if you actually looked up the words
'to hate'

Torn jeans you had from the year before
When you painted flowers on your door
Black polish from your mother
From a time when she knew what she was
That you'll deny ... then sit and sigh
If this world is too much and you can't take it anymore
THEN DIE

I have to ask myself ...

Do I regret that I know you?
Am I tired of this joke?
Is it time to start over?
Can I get myself out of here?

Will you leave me be
Before I do it myself
Because your torn jeans are annoying me
And maybe for a change I want to
Think about something else

Throw your torn jeans
Off the balcony
On the edge perch precariously
Maybe I just want you to fall ... and break
Run before I take control

'Cause in the end you realize that you're finished
And I'm not

Author's Note: It's lovely to be back and clogging up the site once more. You know the drill ... I'm an absolute whore, so review me. But keep the pointless flames to yourself, or I will shove them up your bloody arse. (And trust me, it will be bloody.) Have a nice day!

Love and angst,
Vivica