7:18 pm / Wednesday, Jul. 22, 2009
I'm a wreck of Titanic proportion,
sing those lies again but this time
turn up the distortion,
so I can hear what's real!
So I can't underestimate how
little you feel.
Your song it lied--
your eyes hide the shame of that night--
Your fingers type out the cute little
but only if you're in separate locations.
What good is a crush?
what good is lust?
What good is your art if it won't be seen?
What use is your heart if it doesn't bleed?
Inside your mind thereís a room to hide,
But why decorate it if you wonít let someone inside?
You donít care a bit.
Your selfishness is breeding
An army to administer my beatingó
You call yourself a crutch
But with such delicate stuff
You have to compromise not self-adjust.
My bones were fine,
And your inability to give
They broke them.