| If I can’t crawl inside of you
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| I’m laughing with a broken face
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| I stumble across my self-esteem
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| But to picture the pleasure is making me want my space
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| Understand that God wrapped you like a bow
|
| But in my head, there’s some shelves that need cleaning
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| From basement to ceiling, control
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| If what you’re seeing is an open book
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| That’s great 'cause I’m an open book
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| But I’m real shy
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| Now there’s a part of me seeking
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| And desperately needing to open up
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| That’s strange 'cause I’m an open book, a confused boy
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| I’m an automatic steeple for depressed and lonely people
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| My heart, while in its cage
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| Give and not receive a thing
|
| But the only funny thing:
|
| I don’t know how to give myself advice
|
| And I’ve got this post-traumatic thing
|
| This tattoo of a ring around my wedding finger
|
| And that’s where I want to state this claim
|
| That I’ve got to learn to live and dream
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| Before I go and get myself in love, in love
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| Before, before, before I go and get myself in love
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| There’s Zoloft, Welbutrin
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| There’s Paxil that’s proven, no side effects
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| But the rest left unnamed
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| 'Cause they worked like a charm on me
|
| But when your savings is drying
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| You can’t stop from crying
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| You’ve got to suck it up
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| You’re not her buttercup
|
| You’re not her favorite book
|
| I’m an automatic steeple for depressed and lonely people
|
| My heart, while in its cage
|
| Give and not receive a thing
|
| But the only funny thing:
|
| I don’t know how to give myself advice
|
| And I’ve got this post traumatic thing
|
| This tattoo of a ring around my wedding finger
|
| And that’s where I want to state this claim
|
| That I’ve got to learn to live and dream
|
| Before I go and get myself in love, in love
|
| Before, before, before I go and get myself in love |