I love to take in truth,
but act out lies.

I look for all sorts of proof,
but ignore the impending demise.

For someone in their youth,
I have a lot of worry lines.

Beating my head against you,
like a slightly saner Amanda Bynes.

You keep telling me I'm okay,
and maybe we are fine.

But there's something in the way,
I keep saying all my lines.

What is the reason for my dismay?
I believe it comes from a different time.

I keep praying you won't let me push you away.
But I've got a self-destructive rhyme.