Hard to talk about things when you have nobody to talk to.
Hard to have a good day when there's nowhere to go and nothing to do.
Hard to feel love when you end up hurting or pushing away everyone who's ever cared about you.
Being trapped inside this compassionless life has been eating my soul.
I'm complacent and lazy and I feel so alone.
It's cold it's cold it's cold.
But I guess I can feel a little less alone knowing my bones have something in common with the weather.
Writing letters to everyone who's bed I've ever slept in saying thank you for the tenderness.
*** is just a vacation from the emptiness.
Having fun seems mythical from where I stand today.
It's an art being this much of a burden, no matter where I am, I'm in somebody's way/
Happiness is an art and I'm all out of paints