I am prone to being alone, a clone of the known, sewn together from patches made of matches that catches on fire. It's always the prime time for crime but I'm left on the line when it's time to pay up I'm left in the dust with trust that starts to rust. Deflection and rejection are easier than affection that needs protection, a section that needs correction. Clarity is a rarity that I cannot afford, bruises are trouble that I don't reward.  **** luck I'm stuck in this mess where each caress is more like a press that tears me up inside, REWIND, my mind in on display an array of how ****** up I am. PUSH PLAY, back in the past, cast as a shadow, easily ignored, deplored for the sake of society's propriety. PAUSE, examine your flaws before they get their claws on it and tear it apart till you can't recognize yourself anymore before you're sold for hold that's easy cash and you feel like trash lash out and PUSH EJECT, you reject, before your subject to another ******* clone, you're better off alone.