"It isn't the words you are lacking, but the passion you posess.
Lost between the lines of obsess and I couldn't care less.
I grew weary of your themes, your propoganda is all the same;
With neon pink signs, you'd not be able to make yourself a name.
Maybe I'm just bitter, or a little bit too true.
It's too easy to take back what I said about hearing you.
Your efforts as pointless as the scars written on your skin,
After the shouting and the leaking you think it would sink right in."
Hush now my sweet flower of blue, grown in your own dead.
I wish for a miracle to cure you of your head.
Why are you hugging the sidewalk like your child?
Won't you give it a rest, let it sit for a while.
No, life is not amazing in the way it turns out as it does,
I hurt the most only the people that I used to love.
They crawl to me in my daydreams, begging personal wealth.
I throw them bruises won in wars with myself.
