| All of the time, I’m thinking 'bout things too much
|
| And then I end up out of touch
|
| And feel a lot less real than before
|
| I speak a lot of words but tend to say a lot less
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| I’m just a fuckin' mess
|
| And I will shut my bedroom door
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| And as I iron out my brain
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| To speak to ice cream stains
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| I’ll stare at the ceiling stars and wonder why life’s so hard
|
| Locking the door, I will talk to my floor
|
| And I’ll say
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| Oh, my friend
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| I’m not sure what to do
|
| To get out of this goo that I absorb
|
| How to stop myself?
|
| Hell, if I know
|
| As above, so below, I’m my own damn spirit orb
|
| Most of the time I’m scooping mud and digging graves
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| In these saltwater caves
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| And overgrown hospitals the like
|
| I’ll step along the way to tell the frogs and toadstools about
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| How I hate this body
|
| And they’ll say, oh they’ll say
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| «We would like to help you but
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| It seems you’re living in dreams, come back to reality»
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| I’ll cry «Wait!» |
| and I will wake up late again
|
| And in the morning, once more
|
| I will speak to the floor and I’ll say
|
| Oh, my friend
|
| I’m not sure what to do
|
| To get out of this goo that I absorb
|
| How to stop myself?
|
| Hell, if I know
|
| As above, so below, I’m my own damn spirit orb
|
| As above, so below, I’m my own damn spirit orb |