Is a pack, is a clique,
Is a group of tightly-knit friends
People who can rely on me
The way I'd rely on them.

                                                        Bu­t people these days are plastic dolls
                                                        Car­bon copies, cardboard homes

And paper mache walls.
Disappointing, fake, humanoid clones.

My hands are ******* shaking-
As if this is the worst thing I've done-
I'm just typing in a number.
It's a ****** number and I'm-

I'm losing my mind like
"Doctor, what the hell is wrong with me?"
Like I don't wanna know because this *******...
This ******* can diagnose me.

So I'm ******* shaking until I have to sit down
And deciding everything I have to censor
Because I'm going to hire this Psychiatrist as a friend
But my brain is all warning lights and cries of "ENEMY"

And I've got nightmares thinking about talking about
About anything with substance. Anything I care about
Because it'd take one wrong word in the thick of emotion
For me to be labeled and I've already done that

I don't need another ******* label.

But self-therapy never did me any good and I've got enough bad
And all my therapists were money grubbing shitbags
So I'm going to buy a label from a psychiatrist
With my fingers crossed that I'll get a bottle of complimentary pills

I'm choosing the lesser of two evils that both turn my stomach
***** it, because I've already been ******* by therapy
And even if the psychiatrist is just as bad
It's not like any of them got **** on how I ******* me.

Satanists are lobbying harder for women's rights
than christians, catholics, *******... everyone else.
Satanists.
Jesus H tap-dancing Christ...
might be a beautiful day after all.

There is a scream in the back of my throat
for every human in the world to hear;
I'm sick of every system and every heartbeat
and I'm angry. Angry. Angry,
but too tired to throw something.
I'm angry that it feels like every human being
is on the other end of some joke and
I'm the god ****** punchline,
and you can call it paranoia or narcissism,
but I'm able to drink both and still
sit in the waste it makes, and see it makes no difference
what label I give any metaphor.
They all say the same thing.
They all say the same **** thing.

Nowhere to run,
hiding in plain sight.
Some of us live solitary
with people strewn about us
more like decorations of meat,
some of us crash into others
and stick on a molecular level.
We turn ourselves into monsters
of the bonds we craft;
mutants of desire.
Love without reason or understanding.
It's the only lesson I can't teach you;
the only freedom you may ever realize.
Hide in plain sight and love recklessly,
fall comes on it's own terms.