Is it hard to understand
I like to be misunderstood?
Do you not see I feel uneasy
at times when things are "going good"?
I pricked my fingers on the thorns
last time I tried to touch a rose.
Perhaps it's time to see the doctor
and ask to, please, increase the dose.
I really wish I couldn't feel
if there's only shame and guilt.
Leave me to rot under the covers,
cursing the way that I was built.
Is it hard to understand
the way that life left me fatigued?
And when I think about tomorrow
I couldn't be much less intrigued.
I spend too long on writing words to
the songs no one will want to hear.
The kiss of chemicals has made me
a slave to happiness and fear.
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