In this psycotic state of affairs

I picture my self sitting in a dark café

And I’m smoking my ciggarett

As I sip my caffe in, feeling the sour taste

That’s flowing in my veins now.

And you sit before me

Your eyes heavy with your emo make-up

That I always though was dreadful

As you please your habits by drinking

Yet another glass of vodka

Because we’re so fucking bohemian.

Because we’re so fucking bohemian.

Because we wished we were so fucking bohemian.

Now, I’m not really psycotic

I just like psycotic things.

Now, tell em that with a straight face...

It’s like me saying:

I’m not really a pyromaniac

I just like to see things burn

I just like to see them burn

Did I ever tell you that?

And I wished I could write this things in a diferent way

But everyday I feel a little more ditached from your reality

And your words make no sense

And I really wished your opinion mattered

But it never did

It never will

I really dosen’t matter

So what do we do now?

So what do we do now?

New words with all this diffrent meaning

And I’m skining low on this massacre of minds

They kill aspirations and hopes

And they destroy what we were inside

All the diffrents ones start to look the same

Because even attitude has been sized and measured

Until they have the rules and questions

All figured out

So what’s the point in speaking out?

So what’s the point in speaking out?

Because even when your diferent

You’re not diferent

You’re trying to be diferent

Someone else already did that

Someone else already did that