All I can do is keep writing myself away.
It's like I barely exist.
I say, "I don't give a f**,"
but I think I say it a little too much,
revealing just how many f**s I give.
Spending a lifetime building a personal hell,
a little place where I can resist.
The insensitive thoughts of your youth,
your irrational outbursts of truth,
living out the things you said that you'd never do.
This is how to fell a tree.
Now I'm speaking your language,
still thinking in my native tongue,
acting like a man my age,
just as clueless as the young.