Arguing With The Skeletons In My Closet
I’d like to think I’m something
Like a watered-down firebrand
Cause I’ve got all the perks of a maniac
Scrawled out sloppily on my writing hand
And yes, I’m a bit eccentric
We artists are all the same
We are cursed with eyes like knives and daggers
But we can’t see anyone to blame
God struck me as a pessimist
But still I never saw his face
I wonder if he was smiling
When he left without a trace
They say that life is what you make of it
Well they made it hard to choose
My options are far too limited
Should I win or should I lose?
I don’t know how to describe this
Cause I’ve never felt this way
I feel pain in my chest
And all I can see is grey
I hear a ringing in my ears
It seems familiar and profound
Maybe that’s what I’ll hear
When my body hits the ground
Isn’t it strange that I can write things
That I can’t even say
To complete strangers nonetheless
I guess I’ve had a bad day