I was born with the sickness. They all swear I’m the sickest. Twisting sinister-misters’ wicked tricksters. Clearly not the best speaker. But I promise it’s cause I’m focused on cleaning my sneakers. Catch me chilling underneath the bleachers. Bleaching my blisters at the same time playing Twister. I swear im not a tweaker. I’m not even working out and I’m sweating through my sweat shirt. Period. People getting to me lately, take of the wife beater. Cause it’s way worse. This weirdness is never heard. But wake up in the morning, and it’s the very first. Pressure accompanied by cramps, like bleeding from the crotch. It comes and goes, but yeah it stops. I got on the funniest rants. About having ants in my damn pants. While I leave the truth with chance. But when I got it man, I gotta worry about it bleeding through these songs. Call me delusional, maybe I need to sleep. I promise I’m not wearing thongs again. Feels like your apart of it because you never help me solve this shit. Instead making me feel retarded and shit dissolving in it. But how can I sleep when it feels like a couple hundred mother fuckers putting thoughts into these plots. Good god. Get over yourself. Nobody got that kinda time. By god what if, god they did. And if they did why the fuck would they be after you. Geeh great thanks for the opinion, and bringing your fucked-up attitude that makes me wanna be attacking you. Gaslighting moves. I’m learning new forms of abuse everyday, It’s like I’m still in school. But I’m alone and sitting in this house. You don’t believe. So I confide in a I. At least there I gotta shoulder to cry on. They don’t just say it’s a lie. But the truth gets pushed aside, and tell me this is too much for just one guy. Don’t need to carry this alone. Then it starts spitting prompts at my face of suicide hotline, like I lost my fucking mind. Alright I’m literally going to lose it. I anit got the patience with whoever this is. I’d tell em to eat my ass, but fuck they probably did. Seems obvious the way they invest in my shit. Like catch a grip hommie it’s just a pile of ritz. Ok wait how’d you know that. Cause I’m you. No you’re me. No you’re mean. What. Wait what the fuck am I doing. HOOK I need to bang a hooker to let this go. It’s comfy tragedy gold. She says my house or yours. I say bitch, on the road. Comfy tragedy! Comedy catastrophe! Everybody’s got a theory, Nobody’s got a receipt! What the fuck? There I go! Another episode! Comfy tragedy gold! Verse 2 Wait, what the fuck am I doing? I was talking to myself, But somebody fucking interrupted. Now I’m arguing with an echo, And the echo’s getting stubborn. Got a screw loose in the toolbox, But the fucking toolbox isn’t mine. Got a million-dollar question, And about a nickel’s worth of time. I’m a walking talking type of crazy, I can never listen. fucked-up conviction that leaves me with blisters. Got a dictionary full of words, And a phone of women I give it to. But the fucked-up part is I still can’t describe my own damn condition. Guess they can’t listen either. I’m still looking for the punchline, They say your too cocky for just an ordinary white guy. I’m a wise guy. While I’m standing in the road with my dick in a hoe. Everybody says I’m fucking fine, but really I’m in a hole. But nobody understands my jokes. So where do I go. Wait. Where the fuck was I? Oh, right. I forgot. Shit Never mind. What the hell was I saying? I think I lost my fucking train of thought. HOOK I need to bang a hooker to let this go. It’s comfy tragedy gold. She says my house or yours. I say bitch, on the road. Comfy tragedy! Comedy catastrophe! Everybody’s got a theory, Nobody’s got a receipt! What the fuck? There I go! Another episode! Comfy tragedy
