He would like to think he were batsh-t insane.
At least then he wouldn't have himself to blame.
But every last word he's ever said--feigned,
and the same shame always envelops him
like paint that never erases and has never been
looked at carefully or from within--since--
so, it's starting to really bother me how
we've become so satiated as to say that our grim
situation could ever be fixed.

It's ridiculous that our musts suck so much,
that our luck just runs f-cked, so stuck, so struck
by shattered notions that we matter, so splattered,
and leading inevitable disaster to laughter.

...so, maybe I'm dramatizing the story a bit.
Implore me to tell you the truth, though,
and I'll bore you, see? So, I know more than we--
no, look, I'm distorting the truth. Move me to care.
Stare me down this mound, and pound the sound
out of these frowns so down and out and pout--
no, shout "you're wrong" because they've always been wrong.

They've always been wrong.