I've got a block. It belongs to somebody named Writer.
I'm not getting too far in this life I'm living, either.
My head is swarming, but my pencil is dull.
I guess this **** will have to stay in my skull.
I'm not a kid, but I don't think I'm a grown up.
All of my life, I feel I've let myself be shown up.
I've got it in me. But I guess I've got some demons.
Any shine that I have, they dull it out, "yeah Syn, keep dreamin."
I face my fears, but they always seem to stay with me.
They've been my longest companions, sad reality.
There's a spectrum inside me, but I touch both ends.
I try to live my life as both, but they just cannot blend.
I wanna Rest. And if I'm lucky it'll be In Peace.
But God said to me "Syn, you're not much help deceased."
I met Kurt Cobain. Told him the feeling's mutual.
To finally mute the thoughts I know unmutable.