Why must I sell myself
for your approval,
when I'm loved by so many
or so I'm told.
Why must I pretend
to care for your woes,
when I have so many
or so i tell myself.
Why must I love
when I am not in love,
I have so many to love
but nobody who loves me.

My back hurts,
from the weight that it carries,
the kilos of love which you dropped upon me,
combined with the grams of hate I still hold,
mixed with the pounds of guilt I created,
on top of the sadness stuck within my heart.

My back hurts,
from the things I have done,
to what I have said,
it melts onto my back,
and out of my head.
But you are there to lift me when I fall,
carry my shoulders so that I stand tall,
remove the weight into your heart,
and give my own a strong quick start.

My back hurts,
but your back must hurt too,
as you carry me upon your back,
combining it with the hurt within you.
So teach me the proper form,
I know the weight never goes away,
but you can help me calm the storm,
and maybe I can help you someday.

Rich and lavish, everyone covets them,
wanting makes us selfish, so we choose to condemn,
acting as if the high life is wrong,
and yet we admire it in every song,
but the glittering gold of self-sufficiency,
while believing due to their superb efficiency,
has given the rich a false sense of superiority,
while distilling on us a feeling of inferiority.

So how do we fight back against the man?
We try to take everything we can.
"He doesn't need it! He has so much!"
is what we will shout on a fateful march,
but our words fall upon deaf ears,
as the ones who should listen,
are the ones distilling our fears.

Vous êtes mon petit oiseau,
Vous avez mon coeur, isn't that so?
So don't fly away my little bird,
stay here with me and you'll never get hurt.
Your broken wings I can repair,
and soon you will glide next to me,
We will both be soaring in the air,
to be with one another, over the sea.

Sleep,
I need it so bad,
I want it right now,
like a ***** for some love,
there's nothing I'm above,
Sleep,
The tranquil appeal of silence,
cut off from the world,
nothing in my ears,
free from all my fears.
Sleep,
Why is it so good,
yet unattainable for me,
is it that I don't deserve,
or is that just what I observe.
Sleep,
I'll get it some day,
as it alludes me like a bird,
flying high into the sky,
dodging me until I die.

When I look at art,
I become convoluted,
it tears me apart,
it has become polluted.
Since when did **** on a wall,
or a picture of a tease,
stop to appall,
and begin to please.
The idea of being ironic,
induces the idea of being lazy,
the laziness is chronic,
and fine lines become hazy.
As we tell ourselves it is beyond meaning,
we leave it to the experts to analyze the farce,
but to buy this stuff is demeaning,
it would seem true art is scarce.

I stand above a child,
looking down upon his actions,
but he only looked and smiled,
as I am only one of his distractions.
He keeps his eyes set forward,
without looking back,
his view never altered,
always staying on track.
I look at him as just a stepping stone,
someone to pivot myself until I've won,
but if I wasn't there he wouldn't have known,
for in his mind, he was already done.