I’m gonna give you something for the pain

I’m gonna give you something for the pain

Because I know it hurts not to be sane.

And who ever said imagination was the greatest gift, was drunk or high & lied.

It’s like living in a cage with rainbow decorations and neon green floors

A golden cage that’s not so golden when the gold

Is just cheap taint, and all your dreams seem not to fit in it, because it’s just too crowded with the temptations and sins taking up space.

This is not suppose to make sense. At all.

And I don’t really know if you ever had the intention

Of being more then a bird without wings, but I see it in your eyes

Th eay you talk it makes me read the frustration,

The despair and the anticipation of saying arrevoi to this land

Of Idiots and hores, this two star town with more moeny then sense.

And believe me, I’ve had one foot on the grave and another on the airport

For years now. So, give me something for the pain.

Don’t care if you walk away, because words feel like rubber bullets that

Backfire straight into my buttery heart. And my messege of peace is not

Getting understoud properly, as I stutter my way into a conversation

With an escape plan on the back of my mind.

My mom says I’m anti-social, but I’m not so sure. Maybe I’m one of them

Sociopaths, but then I again I could just be insecure of what I have to say.

Or maybe I don’t have to say anything to make you love me, shouldn’t

My smile be enough? Riots and riots everywhere.

You’re just sitting on your high chair built on your hypocrisy and I’m staring at you

With my unfriendly and oh ever so wide frown, as I question myself

“What the fuck did we ever have in common?”

As I stare myself in the mirror, well and see nothing but

the shatters of some grunesome horror. What did I ever seen in you?

You’re contagiously dull and I’m constantly confused about whatever, what a pair.

Oh my, what a pair. And I’m the ever dramatic anti-emo hero,

And you’re my lying sidekick with your underwear on the wrong side of your pants.

And this is nothing more the poetry turned into, and quoting, a brand new type of

Macabre, biographies are just so hip, right now?

Maybe I should right a book on being a teenager in a lousy town, with louse people, lousy family, lousy personality, lousy looks and weep over my terrible fate.

In the end we’re all just idiots, stupid enought to think that coming here was a fantastic idea, when in reality we were better off somewhere else, where we didn’t have to fight our own frowns and use our marvelous witt as a crouch.