What's wrong with you?
You sweet sweet little tragic?
Is it some sort of vibration, derived from the holy
possession
of that flashin' red button
Is that what you want?
Is that what you need? let it bleed, bleed, bleed in
your matted hair.
Congealed face behind a girlish charm,
you're so confused i can't tell if you're the truth
or faust. You've whitewashed yourself sir, so that the
promiscuous father with his shades of red,
can paint sweet white roses
on your chest.
Make them red, young tragic -
the temptation's there for a reason.
Just as every cliché has a platform in the clouds,
and every silver lining is a vegetable.
you wrong physicist - what makes you dream that way?
you miss meanings whilst convulsing
yourself
you close gaps of convenience
you lie so much you're forced to kneel
you want what nobody who has it wants to have.
You wrote me a letter and I absorbed it
I am you.