Jumping beans,
itchy fiends.
Pop a couple
and feel like a queen.

Slave to the high,
I like to lie...
I don't know why.
Sunglasses in the dark,
I ain't no ******' narc.

Party till my heart drops,
or until the neighbors call the cops.
**** me softly,
or not.
I don't like to talk.

Stagnant and morose
as I transition throughout my duplex.
From chair to bed, bed to chair
staring at the wall and screens
Doing nothing, nothing I need to do.

Coffee at night and pills in the morning
and my therapist doesn't know me
like she should.
It's my fault, I suppose.

Articulating how I feel isn't my thing,
but it's a passion.
I understand everything I can't see and hear.
I just can't seem to breathe when I try to speak it.

It's pretty sad when "Guys my age" by Hey Violet
is a song I can understand.
I'm way too young to be feeling alone.
I have love and I'm still so ******* lonely.

I want to matter.
I want purpose.
I want my parents to love me.

Doesn't matter.
I won't find the words,
I won't find the feelings.
No matter how hard I try,
I was never programmed to do things right.

Maybe because they're my words,
that I will never feel anything other than obsolete.
I hope someone reads this and thinks I'm smart,
thinks I'm special,
thinks "she's neat"

Will that resolve my defeat?
Doesn't matter.
I am predetermined.
I am programmed.
I am a robot.

Women don't get as much done because they're always busy justifying themselves.

Fly high!
That's what they'll say,
after you wreck your car
and spill your brains.

They won't know--
or maybe they will.
****** tomb,
disguised as "wonderful daughter,
great friend."

Everyone has earplugs,
blindfolds too.
The epidemic is supplying
some for you.

Russian roulette
has some competition.
This ain't some new
invention...

Nobody cares--
it's not them.
Nobody cares--
unless it's them.
But it's too late by then.

I go back to Hampshire
to pretend I have old friends.
I drive around the mountains
to look for an end
to the violence
that's been breeding inside.
I've been a god ******,
god ******, god ******.

There's a dying wild
surrounding this town;
a girl limping with her mother,
holding ****** hounds.

You can consume it,
the blurred out dreams,
that these rubber-lovers
hung in Christmas trees.

There's a sense regret
amongst the ****** chic;
a romantic degeneracy
not lost on the teens.
Push in the fate,
to let something out.
I'm such a god ******,
god ******, god ******.

And I blot the ******
remnants of the past,
fire a cheap cigarette
and cut myself on the glass
of the car I drove into
the bank of your dreams.

To get out, to get out,
I've become such a ******* fool.
To get out, to get out,
I've hurt everyone that thought I was cool.