We create wheel barrows full of sound for itto be dumped into a black hole:the bottomless abyss of bi-polar disordersA broken abacus down to good timesSomeone please write a post-it note to remind me why I'm doing thisand when to pay the cable billWon't talk about the cage, it's been touched on too muchBesides, I'm seeing dead whales all too oftenwhich in itself is rather frighteningSad how bad times make good musicHope I can maintain this great depressionand leave myself guessing if I can out do the former until the endWe're all waiting for the payoff.I have one, they have none, so I'm feeling ratherlucky and guilty at thesame timeWe all whistle a salty tune to ourselves for the world to hearand when it's time to capture memoriesthe closest thing to a smile we can muster is a sneerAnd giving blood, sweat, and tears in exchange for cold sweatand fears is only equal to a tickled throat for so longSo the songs lose excitement and loops become gratingMy being is scarred up and I can't keep myself from pickingWe turn pages and fight sore handsADD addicts of abrasiveness joyriding throughthe same scene over and overTime and time again I'm asking myself whybut I'm proud of the dust of twenty cities irritating my eyes"All for what?" loops in my headI ain't fessin' 'til I'm dead or until everything is saidShe has bouquets of poppies spilling from her heartand I'm stuck here tapping my pen on my pad of paperwondering where to startI suppose this comes with the process and problems,getting bythree reasons to do this: her, them, and I[Chorus:]Kicking myself, standing on the edge with a dumb look onsnapping out of itasking, "what are you doing?"Kicking myself, standing on the edge with a dumb look on,snapping out of itasking, "what are you thinking?"Kicking myself, standing on the edge with a dumb look on,snapping out of itasking, "where are you going?"Kicking myself, standing on the edge with a dumb look on,snapping out of itasking, "why?"On overcast days, I'm at one with myselfbut perhaps I should take advice from bumper stickersBut seeing old guitarists on their farm with their children reminscingis that feeling that I'm missing from almost a year agoBack then, it was all about looking through the bullet holes and sighingNow it's snapping my fingers at Linus and smilingI guess it takes hard times to curl my fingers, not a fistbut around this blue flex-grip asking, "do you think...?"Select a question to be answered in words that are next to nothingthat's how I kept my sanity in the first halfI feel like someone is passing hula-hoops down the length of my bodyyet the theater seats are empty, yet I still hear that laughIt takes a power outage to muster creativityjust like tragedies and the commerce on the Stars and StripesWho am I to say? I have problems getting a blank page movingjust one of my insecurities that I suppose will come and go todayAll I can hear are the drums I search forthat might be why the pens are mute at this pointSole says, "it's rubies and rabies,"and lately I've been foaming at the mouthCan't put my finger on whymy sleeves are sopping wet with possiblys and maybesThis is the part where I repeat the last two linesof the song before the chorus to drive across my pointThis is the part where I repeat the last two linesof the song before the chorus to drive across my point?[Chorus]
