Dangle me in front of your lads.
This is what you won't understand.
Tu es un petit garcon.
Tu es bete et tu es bete.
Tu ris a moi.
Tu me ris.
Mais tu ne parles pas francais.
Donc, tu es la blague.
Auch, du sprichst nicht Deutsche.
Du bist scheisse.
You make me angry.
Dont' come into my room and insult me.
Let's see how you like it,
Petit Garcon.

Ich verstehe,
ich verstehe.
Je sais que mon coeur ne sait pas les emotions.
Mais, je pense que mon coeur comprend les emotions.
Peut-etre c'est fausse.
C'est juste une illusion.
Peut-etre c'est vrai.
Ou peut-etre ni vrai ni fausse.
C'est tout.
Je pense que mon coeur peut comprendre.
Et moi?
Und mir?
Ich verstehe,
ich verstehe.

Let's say I went to the bar to drink.
Then got drunk.
Let's say I went to the pool to swim.
Then swam.
Let's say I went to the bed to sink.
Then I sunk.
Sunk into my head.
The sheets.
And I ask why?
Why do I have a window to stare at?
For there to be blinds covering it and a house blocking the view.
Why do I spin circles and circles dodging the pain in my head like the ceiling fan?
Most of all, why--
for the love of God--
when I close my eyes
is it only for a short while?
Could it not be a little longer?
A little escape?
Instead, you fill my head with lies,
false hopes.
It's not nightmares--
it's worse.

To hell with what they say.
"He knows how to manage it on his own."
Maybe I talk so I hide everything else away.
Is he really better off on his own?
What I speak has no substance anyway.
Haven't you ever felt that?
Accuse me of being lazy.
Go ahead, point your fingers.
I would yell back but,
I have lost all my energy.
I throw my pillows, punch them--
I face the wall, punch it--
I take my finger gun, shoot it--
everything in sight and then--
point it to my head.
**** it back.
Close my eyes.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Click.
It's empty. Aren't we all?
I live to see another day.
Carpe diem.

Oh, how I'd love to go out for a smoke.
Stare off into the distance, lonely, wallowing in self-pity.
I can't decide if I want to be holding a Cuban cigar or a skinny Camel.
What do I want for the day?
Oh, how I'd love to go out for a drink.
Feel like royalty sitting on my throne, surrounded by strangers who don't care.
Wallowing in self-pity.
I can't decide if I want an old-=fashioned or Aviation.
What do I want for the night?
Oh, how I'd love to go out for a walk.
Is it so hard to ask?
I can't decide if I want to be a criminal or a killer.
I messed up, wallowing in self-pity.
What do I want for life?

I'm stuck under a pool of water
and a sea of tears
and an ocean of sadness
and a lake of depression
and a shore of low-points
and a cliff of close-ends
and a grass of no greens
and a land of no one
and a tree of no oxygen
and a sky of no sun
and an air of no life.
I can't breathe.
I'm drowning.
Frankly, it's all shallow.
Swallow me whole, Mr. Pill.

Remember when I was young,
crammed in a king-sized bed with the four of us like little anchovies or tuna
packed in a can?
Getting my eyes
adjusted and
staring at the ceiling fan,
hoping that my dreams would be real?
Imagining that the little specks and
floating dust that my eyes see are
leading me somewhere even though they're just made up in my head?
Gleaming at the vertical blinds that are
blocking my view from the dark sky,
hiding that beauty that is outside,
covering the
glimmering stars in the starry, starry night?
Going back to the time,
wishing I was still a small child,
tucked in and under the warm bed sheets,
glazing over what can and will be,
counting the stars, not the sheep, like one, two, three...
dreaming to discover a better space,
knowing that my future will unfold,
trusting that I will leave a tale to be told.

Snoozing, dozing, snoring, hearing
through thin plaster
with no soundproof walls,
wailing.