The Seams.

[rewiiired]

Maybe its all my fault
that everything seems all fucked up,
perhaps its all in my head and
I only see the glass half empty,

maybe the glass is really stone dry
and its all up to me to fill it
and I've spent so long,
too long saying, fuck it,

wanting so long to smash that
glass down to smitherines,
decaying in my life here, my cover
stripping at the seams,

but what I'd do to be an open book,
to find out what this means, but
would they undermine my lines
and still fail to see between,

would the world just be the nazis
burning me in the paperback pile
or would I be a best-seller, could I
just grow a cult for a little while,

but is no one really listening or
am I just deaf to the feedback,
is it that no one's really seeing or
is the only blind one here me,

or are we all sightless following
each other, and who here takes the lead today?
But if we can't see who we really are,
does it really fucking matter in the end, anyway?

Maybe its each and everyone's
freedom and resonsibility,
and if that's so it's clear to see
that I am the one to blame.

So I've always been to blame.