I didn't come here for the overpriced beer, that's not gonna cure what ales me.

What ales me is here, hidden beneath the cure.

Inaccessible, leaving hope that makes it only more painful.

They don't know what to make of me, for I am not defined.

But it's their indifference that chisels away at parts of me until these parts are no longer mine.

I am not crazy, repeating these patterns.
Dropping placebos and falling victim to patterns.

The deafening music, sweating skin and the passion.
I watch the others take it in, it's my only distraction.

And she'll turn to me at the most awkward time, maybe buy me a drink or feed me a line.

And she knows she's just fishing to see if she's still got it. And when I force a half smile she knows for a second I bought it.

If I turn her away then I'm the **** and mistaken, I'm left with only myself to blame.

If I tell her we've never met that it's her that's mistaken, she'll have her confidence restored and her senses awaken.

She'll move on for the night and look to upgrade. I'll sit and try to explain away the trap that she laid.

It gets late enough that I can pretend that I tried, and I make as if I have a reservation with a cabbie outside.

We're all born alone. Everyone dies. But for a few seconds, a few get to lie.