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Tell me something, as the honest man you are,
does it bother you that I paint my arms with scars?
Or that I play with drugs to numb the pain,
Or that I lie and pretend that I'm not insane?
Would it effect you if I jumped of a cliff?
Or if I opened a jar of disease, and took a big whiff?
What if I told you that love was a lie,
and that rain was formed, when angels cry.
If I was to explain to you, all the nonsence in my head,
would you still be there, to sing me to bed?
Or if I told you that I enjoy all the hate,
that radiates through my veins, at a steady rate?
What if I told you that I'm on the verge of death,
But I bet you can smell the gasoline on my breath.