My life is a book I wrote
hand written non-fictional.
The pages go up in smoke
who but me is responsible.
My life’s gone a bit to fast
dwelling on days of the past.
I watch time slip through my grasp
looking back compare contrast.
But I’m not ashamed, to admit I’m clinically fucked up.
What’s left to say? I won’t mix my non fic-lit
with your fairy tale, you don’t give a shit bout me.
Guess I’ll call you Mr. Right.
Food to feed your appalling blight.
I know how to live my life,
opposite of your thats why it’s mine.
There’s a moment you run short of breath.
Hyperventilation panic at it’s best.
Fix me, fix me, how far gone is he?
Just leave me alone because your causing stress.
I’m not ashamed, to admit I’m clinically fucked up.
What’s left to say? I won’t mix my non fic-lit
with your fairy tale, you don’t give a shit bout me.
But look there's more that meet's the eye.
And you couldn't put me if you gave me a try.
My life is a book I wrote,
hand written non-fictional.
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