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You can cut to the bone with all my angry obsessions.
All these chalky happy pills, and their consequences.
Am I done with sleeping? Am I done with waking up?
And I'm tired of thinking, that I've taken to much into my apologize
and lucid dreams and fucked up thinking.
I bleed inside, I fear my life.
I wake and I hide, I choke till it soaks into all these anxious fits,
and agoraphobic dreams of happiness.
You can cut to the fucking point that I'm so frustrated.
As you strip away these fears, then you sand and paint them.
Well I'm through with drinking?
Am I done with waking up?
'Cause I'm so tired of thinking,
that I've taken to much into all I want to be.
This ghost in me is far from leaving...
I feel claustrophobic thinking,
that my skin is a prison in itself.
Do you want to share my.

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