Stuck somewhere between Sunday and infinity
In purple tabloids that make life seem bland
I harden my carapace to a sick world
I conjure a future, hopeless
When the hand of God is still tied behind his throne

Cast iron April skies **** my insides
And this town's scars have never looked worse
These thoughts are too expensive
At the bottom of a bottle, and the ashes I flick
I hope to be born again a Phoenix
But the coping is just a trick
Distractions are a fix, nothing ever gets fixed

And I was having this conversation with myself last week
And next
But it's hard to talk yourself down, when yourself gets the best of you and perpetuates this mess
I am sticks and stones, no use for bones, when your words mean nothing, and you find yourself alone