Listening to the drone
of the television set.
Working on the book of life
but haven’t finished yet.
Wish I could be better then me.
Get this shit off my chest.
So writing has done for me
what bullets do to vests.
Saved myself from my former self
the one that made all these mistakes.
But once it was the manic mind,
Now the depression keeps me awake.
And I am only skin and bone with muscle withering.
You have kept me sane enough but my mind is blistered.
My skin is pale and I haven’t seen the sun.
Used to think my mind was a diamond mine but when the avalanche comes, who can run from the snow so cold that your hands and feet go numb?
And if I’m number three, then who is number one? And I guess two can play the same old record, let that vinyl spin…
And two can strum and let the chords drone, but there’s only one microphone mind.
And in the end when the record skips, when the record skips, when the record skips, we hear the
truth in music.
I’d rather be a B-side in your lives
then track number one.
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