I became accustomed to a kind of social servitude and no one, I mean no one, could accept what I had become.
Selfish, bitter, weak.
Enough to make you sick.
And lately I've been feeling there are bits of life I'm stealing.
Get me home.
At times it seems I will not help but it's just that I must save myself from fear that blankets like mist,
On an optimist who insists it's the simple things that crush,
And I'm crying far too much, so much so that I'm thinking my control on life is shrinking.
There's a light on in my head and I'm thinking what I said.
All the freedom in my brain, I'm alright now, I'm just thinking what to say.
Sorry doesn't seem to wash when there's truths around that I have quashed
And no one, I mean no one, can depress me more than I can.
So does that make me weak or should that make me sick?
But lately I've been feeling that I'm gonna give up breathing.
There's a light on in my head and I'm thinking what I said.
All the fever in my brain, I'm alright now, I can even take the pain.
