|
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 |