major bummer / sound is vibration x atmosphere

let's listen to the purging of your narrator's limbic system

as he tries to drive home the point that he's always been the victim

fighting losing battles against insomnia and punctured lungs

every virus of this syndrome dances around the tip of his tongue

mindlessly in rhythm to the off-beat of a war drum

'til his pallet has calloused and sense of taste has grown numb

'til the fingers do tremble and refuse to grip the pen

waves swell from the shifting ground of every 'never, ever again'

'til the microscopic toxins can evade every diagnostic

and the saliva that comes from the mouth has turned fucking caustic

oh no man, i found owen smoking drugs once again

for pathetic attempt at catharsis or alleviation of pain

adding notches to his wrists for every time he's tripped and stumbled

over his words or shortcomings or the rubble of aspirations crumbled

cause the mortar never holds the stone quite so tightly together

can never withstand the frigidness bought by the cold weather

so he fall and he falter exactly like every other time

and arrange every insecurity into a scheme that barely fucking rhymes

that has a subtle hint of truth that runs through every line

but it's always so hidden to the reader, obscured by all my lies

i swear, by now i'm my wasting my breath fucking speaking

i'm burning every bridge i can find to keep myself from freezing

in constant audition, forever fucking fidgeting

i'll never come off as anything more than mildly fucking interesting

here's to another year of eating shit and being betrayed

being force-fed hand grenades while writing more unnamed serenades

i don't think there's much more to me than sleeplessness and anxiety

boundless insecurity, sarcastic wit and non-sobriety

i'm getting old and getting stoned, filling my lungs up with coal

while finding new and inventive ways to slowly chip away at my soul

scrap away at the bones until there's nothing left but pride

which is the only emotion i ever show, the rest are hidden inside

i swear i'm a fucking disease, but i'm sure i'm only benign

amplifying the genes for anxiety and furthering it down the blood-line

i won't crack under the pressure, by my own intent or by error

i'll take every friendship i have and rip and tear and sever

but since i'm always in the wrong, it's alright to fuck me over

i'm the main stepping-stone along your personal journey to closure

i'm a hero with no glory, i'm your biggest hindrance in disguise

i'm sisyphus, forever pushing my avarice towards the fucking skies

help me fade into obscurity, become another silhouette

fade gracefully into the background of hazy memories you'll eventually forget

untitled. i suck and am a bitchy emo faggot.

why do the worst of things happen to the best of people?
what's the point of awareness if consciousness is near-lethal?
why do the best of people think they're the worst of man?
cause the worst of the best men have achieved far more than i can
my skin will never be anywhere near as callous as a lion's hide
man, no gives a fuck unless you're an attractive man or dead
so maybe to seek attention, we should kill ourselves instead
never amount to anything passed null, seriously better of dead
you can never walk so proudly kid, until you hang your head
until you bend your will and hope at their fucking knees
until you stop fighting and habituate to the disease
get educated, well adjusted, obtained some fabled degree
there could never be an outcome worse than ending up like me
comprised of half foregone glory and half half-hearted hate
i'm carrying so much on my shoulders, it's moreso baring weight
there's a developing pattern here, though i doubt any of it matters
i'm just a pirrah that climbed way too far up the social ladder
i've got no hopes, no dreams, no friends and no drive
but i've got cigarettes and malice, just too little to thrive
i've got everything i need, though half as much as i want
tired of being broke and broken, i'll continue to act nonchalant
i'm a blunted knife in the side of everyone interested in me
twisting and turning until it can pierce an appropriate artery