Each day my shortcomingspick my pockets my faults were letters carved in stone as meaningful to you as words alone
In a broken mold, they made me
The black sheep of the family
Worth less than zero my opinion, and room temperature iq
I did something, now I'm nothing, always wrong with this or that poisoned with fear, watch is twist my measly brain mad
Talk about me when my back is turned next time we meet it will be too late the memory burned in my ears of what you said and now I've got a recipe for hate, taste it
Dark clouds on the horizon make it hard to breath a walking mistake, but every time I run away, I just come back for more
The choice is clear I can quit and fall on my sword or light a fire too see who runs or stays and plays the confidense game
