Sick to my stomach, its every week you know?
Acidic, chunks, or the guilt I sow
Im in my own head, trying to play psychiatrist
But I scream and yell, it doesnt help in the slightest
Theres a whisper that comes as I doze off to dreamland
"Your life is a waste, so why are you breathing?"
I spend hours a night trying to justify my existence
But in the end I lose, embarrassed and dead to my parents
Maybe Im dead to myself too
Always hung up on hanging myself with a makeshift noose
Its just a dog collar or my old jump rope
When Im at the end of my line theres no sound to holler or words from my throat
Its a gargled mess as a statement in life
But theres one problem I have at the end of the night
See Ive never seen God or any of his angles
No presence of good that has ever dangled
Though I have seen the wrath and delight
Of a being with power who makes this world seem perfect in every right
Theyre waiting for me on the other side
And there are no good deeds to help me escape or to hide
So while my body is weak and my mind much frailer
I prefer this torment over the one they have tailored
