To vicarious pragmatism
The elemental sweating of ideas
And whatever is left in the pantry
For anyone to indulge
In the comfort of many different reasons
For rejecting any ambition
Puked and spat over the beauty
Of the sheets you slept in
To never falling asleep after a long day
And the things you want to do
You'll never do them
You might do them
You'll never do them
To feeling amazing over the prejudice
Against our useless bodies
Going steady until it crashes
Crying and begging for the last time
You thought everything was alright.
I let myself go in the middle
Wishing I wasn't dead
I let myself go in the middle
And it's making me upset.