He plays himself

With a mask like soaked clay

And faux tears on-command,

All you can do to cope with the hindsight

Is to say you were brave for sticking with it

When you weren't brave enough for the alternative,

Voice like a whisky-croak and words that

Ring of sweet nothings but really mean nothing at all.

Blood on the carpet. Never coming off

And never failing to remind you of what you did and didn't

do wrong.

You figured you'd make boredom into something

Less important but the meaning of any philosophy

Is dependant on the day and the weight of the past it carries--

**** it

Bassline stranded on the boderline, that is to say

Stuck and unfixable. That's part of growing, right?

Dealing with it and moving on, forming a character

From a tortuous pantomine; doing the impossible in

Ameliorating light strictly with the tools given to you

by the dark room you were raised in. Rise or sink.

It was out of your hands, your actions moving forward

Is all that has to matter now.

Just hold on until tomorrow.