Empty Words,
by Rewired.
I know what you're thinking.
I only think about myself
and I'm a broken bastard
picking up the pieces,
no stranger to self-criticism and never-ceasing pessimism
bottle held high, lost in the shiny surface of the bottle
twenty-three cheers for perpetual narcassism.
I tried to change my focus but you fucked me over.
I tried to change my mind but you wouldn't help me rip it off.
I was holding my breath and you left me suffocating.
I'm so disappointed. Damn you. Damn you for being
no fucking better than me.
Your dark and intelligent and endlessly fascinating.
I'd reserved the key and I wanted to unlock you,
you could open new doors for me, beatify me, help me
find a way to shine a light on this burnt mind of mine.
What did I see, some female completion of this male me?
Where did I lose sight of my goal of self-sufficiency?
When did I get wound in my mental webs of complexity?
Why do I get angry at you?
Why did I expect any more from you
than you or me would expect from me?
What became of simplicity?
Not even dreaming is
a road to serenity
anymore, the other side
of the looking glass seems to be
loosing patience and growing
sore all the more these days.
Even I'm getting tired of hearing my fucking nonsense,
stream-of-consciousness.
Life is so confusing.
If all we see is our own reflections
we get perpetually fucked by our own assumptions.
Here's my infinite regression of depression and frustration.
I've weaved a projection around every square inch of my shitty life.
To hell with you, I just end up fucking me again.
Get on medication.
Get on medication.
Sideways eight cheers for my meditation and consideration
on prescribed chemical sedation
to be a step forward in the approach to
a solution for my dreary, stagnant, redundant situation
my grotesque condition from indecision
to profound delusion and hallucinations not even
I could imagine if you can
get passed that one.
One life to live would be bad enough,
but an ongoing series of the same-old-stories?
A skipping record I can't break.
You could have changed my melody.
You could have put gestures and rhythms
to the empty words that I've been speaking.
But you wouldn't even hum along.
Wrapped your arms around,
a little whistle and
your gone.
by Rewired.
I know what you're thinking.
I only think about myself
and I'm a broken bastard
picking up the pieces,
no stranger to self-criticism and never-ceasing pessimism
bottle held high, lost in the shiny surface of the bottle
twenty-three cheers for perpetual narcassism.
I tried to change my focus but you fucked me over.
I tried to change my mind but you wouldn't help me rip it off.
I was holding my breath and you left me suffocating.
I'm so disappointed. Damn you. Damn you for being
no fucking better than me.
Your dark and intelligent and endlessly fascinating.
I'd reserved the key and I wanted to unlock you,
you could open new doors for me, beatify me, help me
find a way to shine a light on this burnt mind of mine.
What did I see, some female completion of this male me?
Where did I lose sight of my goal of self-sufficiency?
When did I get wound in my mental webs of complexity?
Why do I get angry at you?
Why did I expect any more from you
than you or me would expect from me?
What became of simplicity?
Not even dreaming is
a road to serenity
anymore, the other side
of the looking glass seems to be
loosing patience and growing
sore all the more these days.
Even I'm getting tired of hearing my fucking nonsense,
stream-of-consciousness.
Life is so confusing.
If all we see is our own reflections
we get perpetually fucked by our own assumptions.
Here's my infinite regression of depression and frustration.
I've weaved a projection around every square inch of my shitty life.
To hell with you, I just end up fucking me again.
Get on medication.
Get on medication.
Sideways eight cheers for my meditation and consideration
on prescribed chemical sedation
to be a step forward in the approach to
a solution for my dreary, stagnant, redundant situation
my grotesque condition from indecision
to profound delusion and hallucinations not even
I could imagine if you can
get passed that one.
One life to live would be bad enough,
but an ongoing series of the same-old-stories?
A skipping record I can't break.
You could have changed my melody.
You could have put gestures and rhythms
to the empty words that I've been speaking.
But you wouldn't even hum along.
Wrapped your arms around,
a little whistle and
your gone.
