Got Hollywood Undead just stuck in my head
Playing on repeat, the words I dread
"Pull up my sleeve and see the pattern of my cuts!"
Just playing over and over, my brain is fcked
I used to wonder how good scars look
On the front page of this self-serving book
But now I know better, they just show weakness
Sometimes I look in the mirror and ask why I did this
It was because I felt the need
Suffering at the hands of my own greed
A red line drawn, a stinging pain
And a smile on my face again
But scars aren't all good, I mean they all have a story
How would you tell your friends, that you were falling
Fck that, how would you tell your kids?
"I was messed up and that's why I did this?"
"I thought a scar would look good, but I became obsessed
With the idea that my wrist should be dressed
All up in red, my own pretty doll
A dimple on the cheek and a blade that stole?"
I don't think so
I had become obsessed, with the idea
That to cut myself was no sign of fear
So I did it when I was angry, when I was sad
Yeah that's right I did it when I was mad
Usually at myself, but sometimes at others
Made myself believe they'd go running to their mothers
After I'd finished with them, knuckles cracking
And a grimace as my flesh opened to cutting
Sometimes I'd be sad, so sad and depressed
Stuck in old habits or just down and messed
Either way, it was my way, my only way out
Turning to the razor when in any doubt
But I got ugly scars, on my torso and shoulder
On my leg, on my arm and places older
I can't remember them all, there's just too many
And I regret them all, and'll stay till I'm twenty
And some for longer
Although I certainly hope not
For these scars, these scars so horrible
Caused by a kid who in anger got lost