I've got some letters inside of my drawer that should have been stamped and delivered.
One is addressed to my ex, it says I'm the type of kid who can't be lived with.
One is addressed to my friends, it says I'm a mess so y'all can't visit.
One is addressed to myself, but I don't know what personality or hand to give it.
I'm a God damn misfit...mismatched, but never missed much.
Mr Right-time-wrong-place with a long face until our lips touch.
I don't miss the mistrust, its what got our messages mixed up.
Before I rip up your letters let us see if I can tear you away from his clutch.
This stuff's a whole other drawer from a different dresser I'm not ready to address.
I went to the west to get my mind off things and I'm already depressed.
I give up. Get let down. Down play. Play games. Put on my game face.
Face my pharmecudial needs and feed on my medicine, but I don't like the way it tastes
I go place to place without enough money to put a bed under me,
so I share my sleeping space with rodents, insects, and dust bunnies.
I laugh at the mess I've created for myself until it gets unfunny,
but I'm content in the fact that they don't expect respect, sex, love, or trust from me.
When I'm hungry I can taste it.
I hide in the basement.
Check up on me every now and then,
Because my mood swings low...and I can feel myself going down again...
Falling off is easy. Getting put on takes a bit of ass kissing.
I'd rather listen to myself flop on the ground than hear the sound of a mattress spring.
I rap and sing and talk and write and often type with 2 fingers, the "hunt and kill" method.
I edit one third of a word per second.
Your emails sit in my unsent box. If you're a girl that I miss,
you'll eventually get my virtual good bye kiss.
The rest are addressed to my friends and the subject line is "Just check this fine bitch"
And the one for myself is untitled but...its the same virus
My wrists get slit on your shoulder blades when I lose my grip while I hold your face.
Let it drip on your golden laced silver slip...spilling all over the place.
I'd lay my jacket over the blood puddle when we'd go on dates
to prove that I'm a gentleman, peddling my bike at a slower pace.
"The sum of the parts doesn't equal the whole," she states.
Before my parents get home I'll take
time to find the fragments of our relationship and glue back together this
Falling in love is easy. Falling out of love takes a bit of practice.
I'm good at both without even owning a mattress.
I never asked for a kiss without deserving one. If you never saw me cry before,
wait for the next time I wake up on the wrong side of the floor.
I've got some letters inside of my draw that should have been sent by now...sealed in an envelope.
One is addressed to my ex and it says that I feel our friendship's a joke.
One is addressed to my friend and it says his ex-girlfriend's on coke.
And one is addressed to myself on a personal note, unopened...filled with endless quotes.
Whenever I spoke, they'd close me in and bust my lip.
Now I wear parenthasese on my temples, step to the podium and just think.
Whenever lonely I shrink...hold myself...squeezing tight.
Before I sprawl out on the hardwood floor and kiss myself to sleep at night.
I have dreams of flight, but I'm not floating. the ground is approaching awfully quick.
So I wake up screaming for you to catch me. That's what I start every day off with.
I may talk shit, but there ain't much else to do in this prison cell.
And lucky for me no one listens well...especially when i dis myself.
I'll fly away on a pig when my living hell freezes over.
And since I'm used to the cold I'll be able to rest my head on Jesus' shoulder.
Explanations are in order for why these floor boards are always freezing.
I guess it'll all make sense once we get older and reach the Age of Reason.
Until then, I'll have no reason to sleep in. Not even on weekends.
Unless we're together, because my will power will probably weaken.
Deepen my appreciation for the current condition
because I'm sick of always feeling like something is missing.
I slumber in one position. Crouched up an fetal like. And the couch sucks cuz my feet are like...given no space to breathe
while I embrace my knees
so its off to the floor because I can't sleep anywhere else.
That's where I write these letters to all of y'all but never send 'em.
It's better to just keep to myself.
Its better to just keep to myself.
Its better to just keep to myself.