Shyly sitting in the corner of a dim lit room avoiding all your friends
just existing for the liquor to hit you fast enough for living to begin
because your boring when sober
they engage you
in conversations just to feel like your wanted
but you think that they'll laugh at what you say.
You feel no one loves you,
facades that come and go and your undercover with a smile
distracting them from pain you feel inside.
So you'll play along
showing you're normal so that you'll belong
with your paranoia stored away
beside the others with crushing weight.
Bottles on shelves served
for someone who could help you
but you stay idle
to admit that something's wrong.
And all of your lost loves, unfaithful
the ones you exalted
produces a pattern,
a theory that proves to you it's always been your fault
Could you be wrong?
Are these just happenstances that you incur?
Or are the reasons for loneliness
stored up in vessles upon a shelf?
All these smiles you show
radiantly from the glow
from the bottles you shine during nighttime
to keep the appearance alive
that we are one and the same.
Please prove me wrong
the weight on these shelves won't last for long
They've been splintered for years and should be restored
I don't feel like doing much anymore
I don't feel like doing much
I don't feel, I just don't
Shyly sitting in the corner of a dim lit room avoiding all my friends
just existing for the liquor to hit me fast enough for living to begin
Because drowning the sorrow is better than boredom with friends.