give a fuck about a fuck up
this is as close to heroism as you'll ever get
fake it til you make it
trust you'll make it some day
today pluck is luck, the only way
you're an artist, self-indulgent with your heart on target
and your only chance for greatness is conveying the chaos
(and bonus points for making a way out of that)
i know it's so hard to express when it counts
and you're not much for hard when your energy's low
but a little effort goes a long way, you can't imagine
quasi-battery, just trust me
steel yourself to setbacks now
brace yourself, thicken skin
and get a few licks in before they kick your teeth in
bleed on the floor as you crawl through the door
control won’t end up in a noose
cause you got enough balance to stand on your feet
maybe you didn't wobble well at all
maybe that's not your forte, hey?
it's an artistic crutch to talk to yourself
bloodlet expression through direct messaging
(limp writing might appeal to rehab rubberneckers)
maybe later you'll develop a philosophy
that eschews responsibility
until then, express like it's a duty
sometimes it must be said like a nursery rhyme
sometimes you gotta lull yourself awake
sometimes you gotta march to the beat of that drummer
who created the groove you sang to
that became a song about a revolution
the soundtrack to the daily death-march
down carbon monoxide road, to the youthea camp kosang
there's more horizons than you see, in waking life
so keep the dream journal
if you could only shake off the morning malaise
and rise to the call of the faintest hint of energy
you could put the fakery away, some day
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