| It’s me on my old bed— too low to the ground
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| Each day it’s harder for me to climb out
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| A yellowed mattress. |
| A deeper indent
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| I keep flipping it over and over again
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| Like a fucking film school shot framed in the mirror
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| Pulling out the two greys in my beard
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| Shave it off like I can disappear
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| I’ve done nothing the past ten years
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| It’s just like me to take a swing
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| And disagree with everything
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| Condescend, but I am nothing
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| A lesson to be learned
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| «You might wake up, but you’ll never be better, than this…»
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| Pushing thirty and still playing house shows
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| Waking up on beer soaked floors alone
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| Hoping we’d take it further this time
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| But I don’t know how to stay in line
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| I bump my head and come down
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| The same as my shit friends on the bright of a Sunday
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| Hoping that next year will be better
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| Than growing out of another sweater
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| «You might wake up, but you’ll never be better
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| You might come through, but you’ll always second guess
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| You might breathe free, but you’ll never stop pacing
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| You might find love, but you’ll always be depressed
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| You might change your hair, but you’ll always look awkward
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| Your back might heal, but you’ll never get your rest
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| You might move on, but you’ll never feel important
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| You might be fine, but you’ll never be your best
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| So when you wake up
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| And know you’ll never be better —
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| Hide under your sheets
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| Your room will always be a mess." |