you know it's ironic how you keep telling me to speak my mind,

even though you put tape over my mouth everytime, now that isn't so kind.

you know it's ironic how you tell me that im so quiet, when you've never given me a chance to speak love.

you know it's ironic how you tell me that i look down too much,

that i need to look towards the sky and such,

but yet you hammer me down like a nail, with your awful words, making me feel like i'm trapped in a jail cell.

*Oh, the irony.
Oh, the irony.
Oh, the irony.

Even if everything
we feel was tattooed all over our bodies they still wouldn't understand.

he put down his paint brush,
and told his artistic heart to shush,
for he was no longer feeling the lovely creative rush,
reality was gently tugging at his sleeve
telling him its time to leave
hurrying, so he won't decieve society
as time passed, he went from an artist
to a blank canvas
he was finally human at last,
sadly.