The white sky bleeds Spring air as white as snow.
Don't you hate the irony in eveything that's happening.
Like breaking the mirror you looked into,
To make sure you weren't distorted.
I told you, you never could be.
And hell, broken glass won't help,
Nor will a collage of your face.
The antiquity of these thoughts is anything but priceless.
The couch has been my home.
My guitar has been my artificial life,
Since you took mine, which was genuine.
How expensive can we get?
How expensive can we get?
Repentance is all I want from you,
And 'til I get it, I won't relax,
Because without the cleansing of my veins,
I know I can't go on again.
It's too dark and humid and cold and wet in this desolate morgue.
So ask yourself, "What's gone wrong?"
"What's happening or going on?"
Because the fact that I couldn't answer any of those has impailed me.
And I can't go on. I'm still wondering what's happening,
And what I've lost, and what's happening.
I don't know who I am.
I've dug deep inside my mind, but I still can't find a remaining splinter,
From the part of me that you burned down.
I don't care how you're doing.
I don't care if you didn't stay.
Isn't it obvious? You didn't stay.
You won't stay, and I don't know who I am.
The paper cut me up my arm,
And it was white as the sky used to be.
I'm bleeding.
What's happening to me?
