Secretly somber, fear getting stronger|
A warmonger wreaking havoc on confidence,
he canít stand it much longer.
They call him a washed up writer, last published piece
The result of an all-nighter with bottles and lighters
It was garbage, Give up youíre a bitch, not a fighter
He listens to that voice, traps himself under covers
Counts the blades of the ceiling fan.
one, Smile, two, Breath, three, Jaw, four, Death, five, Cry, six, Women, seven, Beast, eight, Me, nine, Goodbye
It wasnít him, blame it on the brain between his skin
A soldier in a chemical war that he cannot win
So he checked himself into the doctor
Now maybe you think this kid didnít need medication
Depression in the head, a misanthropic fascination
Manic as faking panic or a mind-made mutation
When heís down, heís dead
When heís manic, heís a man in tights
When heís drunk, heís a porpoise
Doc insists that he take pills till he dies
At least now, when his eyes
Get heavy from the spins
Heíll make it past nine....