| This is a crisis | |
| With ticking time, calendars and cannonballs | |
| So I question what this life is | |
| teenage dreams of fame, the motorway or swimming lanes | |
| There's a problem to my crisis | |
| it lasted 22 years, 7 months, and 7 days | |
| Still I wonder where my mind is | |
| with all that ticking time, calendars and cannonballs | |
| I'm ten times sore | |
| Hoping it's a star, no satellite that blinds me | |
| I'm very bored | |
| Fighting myself much harder than I fight them | |
| It's in my TV screen, in my self-esteem, | |
| my forgotten dream, in the things I've seen | |
| In the things I don't see anymore, | |
| in the death I'm trying to ignore | |
| In the tuned up cars, in the teenage whores, | |
| in the words I say without a cause | |
| In the credit cards, in the desperate hearts, | |
| in the hollow words, in the pop-star | |
| Get me out of here, get me out of here, get me out of here, | |
| Get me out of here, get me out of here, get me out of here | |
| Who can? | |
| So analyze this analysis | |
| When the rockets come in everyday form | |
| and I'm still not gone | |
| It seems I' not much of a good time | |
| With my worried mind (be happy) and my cannonballs | |
| I'm ten times sore | |
| Hoping it's a star, no satellite that blinds me | |
| I'm very bored | |
| fighting myself much hard than I fight them | |
| It's bitter to consider | |
| that it's myself and not the world that kills me | |
| It's bitter to consider | |
| that it's myself and not the world that kills me |
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