I never put in enough effort, because I know there's nothing to try for.
I give up trying, and I go crazy,
And I stare at my wet paintings and wipe my hands over it.
Because I know I'll never put in enough effort to be proud of myself.
I try and I try, and again and again, I feel the same thing,
And it's starting to feel so old, as if what's the point of thinking? I came back where I was yesterday.
I try to peel my mind open,
It just refuses to work, but I know it worked.
I was unreasonable and angry and mean, and you called me a loser.
I am nice and mild and I never get my point – my anger – across, and I'm so much more of a loser.
But today as I stood behind you I had more than enough, my throat ached trying to hold my tears back.
The words of truth hanging on my lips, and I know they're not unreasonable or angry or mean, or nice and mild – I just don't know what they are cos I've never said them. But I know you'll agree with me. Not now, not tomorrow, but only when I'm truthful.