[ Featuring the pigeons ]
I've always understood compliments to be backhanded
The only self I'm serving is penance
I've stared off the cliff face
I've eyed up the train
I've called up the hotline
Used my skin to atone the flames
The scabs in my fingers nails
The salt in my blood
The unoriginality on my feed
The guilt that I feel before I've even started
An arsonist when it comes to burning bridges and drowning beneath them
I can't stop the tar inside of me from flowing
Even dead I'd polluting something else again
My self hatred is growing
I can't make sense of it all
I feel like planning a plan
Might as well be nailing jelly to wall
But I count myself as a coward
Feel like a whack a mole every time I lift my head up
Headless with the hammer
Braindead with intelligence
And talent doesn't matter
Just another fictional thing to worry about
