they told me, luka, you should speak your mind.
i told them there’s my book of poetry in which you’ll find
everything i ever went through since i was fourteen.
i'm 8 years in; think i’ll release it when i’m forty.
unless, of course, i die before that;
overdose on drugs, 27 club, and all that;
i’m not too sure what you would call that,
but this poetic self-destruction is where the chord's at.
hell is what you make of it;
don't fake it for the sake of it;
the waiting, it can bring you down.
australian is what i sound and look?
i don't believe in luck; i think it's all coincidence.
