Sometimes writing feels like a forced cry
It's not insincere, nor newborn-pure
I hear my head trying to switch gears
Between abandon and straight lines
Or sweet dreams and honesty

Don't believe me when I say
That putting your heart on the microphone is easy
Regret might hang on your eyelashes the night after
Or pull the lids up until the witching hour

If there's anything that's sure
It's the fact that you've always been a doubt
And everything around you seems like satellites
Blurred and unsure
And I could explode anytime