I am quite simply unbearable,
everything I do, it's terrible,
and when the night strikes twelve on clocks,
I will sit and lie awake, think a lot.
The old lake by where I grew up,
the palm trees of a place I love,
it all flashes past me in a stare,
like even the good memories exist
simply and utterly to pull my hair.
I am so sick of myself.
I scream- I am so sick of myself.
I lash out, I am so sick of myself!
It doesn't pay to be sick of yourself.
It's a sad, lonely life that I envision,
convince myself I'm fine, until the
bombs strike or the Earth decays,
and it is wrapped around my finger
like a note to my dead thoughts.
I am so sick of myself,
utterly annoyed at how little
I pay attention, how little I
regard others' feelings.
And it is at the end of the trail I see
old men, lonely, same as me.
The bastain of their minds covered in thick dark fog.
Inside of it I presume, just more of the same bitterness.
Then there are the post feelings,
and you know you drive everyone
away from you. You know they are
afraid of you. You know every sound,
every breath that escapes your lungs
is the same as a clock ticking until
it breaks. You know how it ends and
you have ambitions that aren't great.
Maybe I'll go to college,
and be pitied there.
Maybe I'll finally learn the violin,
and disappoint my grandfather.
Maybe I'll find someone to love,
and watch them misunderstand me.
Maybe I'll enjoy the world,
until I lay awake at night.