The lovely curse of intellect; I am sick of it, I can not win; I am poison
Or maybe it is you, that's got me feeling so defeated well get lost then
The power cord for reasoning is shorting out, I'm short of breath, and I blame you
But maybe it is me and I should stop pointing the finger, keep my lips closed
The vessel walls will atrophy, while I'm fast asleep; some sick disease will take you
Or maybe I'll be wide awake, not states away salvaging some day dream
The shelf life for happiness is short and
Ive been bored to death, i don't blame you
But maybe you still do, and so the way I feel is nothing more than pillow talk