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Whenever I speak, I think 'what the fuck is wrong with me?' In my head I hear songs, but my words just make them all sound wrong. And I try to sound bright when I'm only uptight. But it never makes sense; it's just rambling that's weighted with pretense. But you're a disease that keeps my mind at peace and I'll take you down off the shelf whenever I'm feeling sorry for myself. Well, I'd like to think I've changed for the better but, really, I only got worse. And knowing, some say, is a blessing, but me, I'll just call it a curse. Oh, I'll happily call it a curse. People like you are seldom and few, happily on their own. No hand to hold, hearts beating cold, never to stop for someone. Well I'm drunk, and I'm stoned, and I'm stupid, and I'm alone, and you're sick as a dog, while you tumble in the dark. Well, you fuck who you please--and that's everyone but me--but I keep coming back, hoping something comes of that. Oh, I'm trying to keep myself quiet, as you walk up the steps to your door, but your joy is the thing that I covet, and a state that I've been longing for. Well, maybe it's me...and you're not trying to torture me. I guess I have flaws--just as much as anybody does...

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