| I honestly can’t say a single nice thing
|
| Or much of anything for all of these insects
|
| And their empires
|
| Holding old husks
|
| But I can say
|
| I don’t miss the days
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| Of being a pawn or a martyr in somebody’s imperfect game
|
| When the shows I take
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| Mean more than the points I make
|
| Like how I say things that the earth shouldn’t take
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| How I’m screaming out
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| Like all the time
|
| In hopes that these hang-ups will somehow unwind
|
| When these terrible scenarios seem like all I know
|
| So I’ll pack up some feelings to take to the grave
|
| And I honestly can’t say a single nice thing
|
| Or much of anything for all of these insects
|
| And their empires
|
| Holding old husks only for themselves
|
| Only for themselves
|
| A little insight into hell
|
| A little comfort for our shells
|
| And we stay cause it’s safe there
|
| I admit I’m content
|
| With this feeling of constant
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| Relapsing, reviving, then lying in wait
|
| When the unhinged start of all these things I pull apart
|
| Replace them with magic until it’s just not the same
|
| A chorus line, set to off-half-time
|
| Piece of the puzzle not quite set in frame
|
| Then it creeps in like a soft wind
|
| And I feel it all over like old, chipping paint
|
| But the real world is compelled to spin
|
| I wish that I could have felt anything since
|
| So fuck all these insects and their empires
|
| Holding old husks only for themselves
|
| Only for themselves
|
| Only for themselves
|
| Only for themselves
|
| Only for themselves |