And this is to the love that I lost, and all the troubling thoughts of how I got double-crossed.
And this is to the divorce I was forced to settle with, and the remorse I fought off with metal fists.
And this is to the wet, watery kiss I left you with on your porch as I watched your trembling lips.
This is to the memory of our early years, the first girl I shared feelings with.
And it's the realest thing I'd experienced in my short existence, I ain't afraid to admit it,.
Cause love is one of the things that doesn’t come with an age limit, now does it?
In fact I'm gonna have to say, that I'm more keen to feel such things.
Hopeful dreams I'd lost in a smokescreen of meaningless fucking, touching without touching.
Candles in the dark, casting shadows on our parent’s battles, this is for the romantics at heart.
It wasn't too long before I held you more then my pen when I wasn't writing songs; that went something like,
"Forever and always, whenever those songs play..." I remember empty hallways.
Or your image that descended from the top floor became an echo; I paid the price for those haunting, and couldn't afford to let go.
From a passive debt, I'm past regret; did you know I dreamt about you before we met?
Remembering our first kiss, and it hadn’t even happened yet, recollecting your scent; that I wasn't even given the chance to forget.
I guess that's the magic of it, now every rehashed subject's displaying what I wrote on cafe napkins to the public.
To get it over and done with, closure hath cometh; shoulders have plummeted from holding these buckets.
Hold your laughs till I go back to the tunnels of Paris where I wrote half of these paragraphs... but fuck it.
This is to my ten-year story, in another decade you’d better be better prepared for me.
In the first four years, you were all ears; then for the next six, you left me for the next ex and went def to my message.
So that began my affair with the world abroad; behind the curtain with the other hurtful girls I explored,
Or your image that descended from the top floor became an echo; I paid the price for those haunting, and couldn't afford to let go.
From a passive debt, I'm past regret; did you know I dreamt about you before we met?
Remembering our first kiss, and it hadn’t even happened yet, recollecting your scent; that I wasn't even given the chance to forget.
I guess that's the magic of it, now every rehashed subject's displaying what I wrote on cafe napkins to the public.
To get it over and done with, closure hath cometh; shoulders have plummeted from holding these buckets.
Hold your laughs till I go back to the tunnels of Paris where I wrote half of these paragraphs... but fuck it.
This is to my ten-year story, in another decade you’d better be better prepared for me.
In the first four years, you were all ears; then for the next six, you left me for the next ex and went def to my message.
So that began my affair with the world abroad; behind the curtain with the other hurtful girls I explored,
until I became the monster, turned into the words that I record.
Pardon me, if you’ve heard it all before, "I didn't shake you to hurt you."
When you landed on the floor, in a room of naked virtues, I closed my eyes to cancel what I saw.
Your hand made the first move, to the handle of the drawer, where the frail girl couldn't think to live.
"I didn't shake you to hurt you."
I never planned it before. I can't shake off your perfume, can't wash my hands no more.
And I'm breaking my curfew, but I can't walk, I'm standing at the door…I hear the wailing of a little kid...and the failure of innocence.
His compromise, eyeing the side of the kitchen sink, what did you think? I just let you cut you, cut me? Cut the bullshit.
Damn, I love the hugs enough to tolerate, the way we made each other crazy, making it so tough to operate productively.
My self-esteem didn't help when I felt ugly and I figured that's the reason why you wouldn't trust me.
My ego does bleed, I shouldn't have let you test it, and let your arms free to follow up with your domestic slip up.
Love is a battlefield, so lick your shots quick, while I lick my wounds and then resume as an obvious target.
Infatuations with the past protect my Purple Heart with a faded picture I had in my shirt pocket.
I'm going out with a bang, in a blaze of glory holes, the anti-hero, and I don't care how many ways the story's told.
Just be careful when these doolies play like drums, and be careful what you say, because my uzi weighs a tongue.
This is to the sleepless evenings that I spent next to gravestones; hoping someone from beyond would grab my arm and take me home.
I hadn't accepted I'd have to make it alone, after feeding everything I had into a payphone.
And this is to the rain, I felt like it was made of spit, my parade was an unbreakable chain of Gabe's trumpets.
Save the buckets even though they weighed down my walking, you don't know the height of the steak you place your fork in.
“You look old.” That's what you said.
“I feel old.” That's what I said.
I’ve been through a lot since you’ve been gone, dead, born again, torn to shreds, over girls who were porcelain.
The crybaby dolls, when we were allowed to talk again, I stopped accepting wake-up calls – that ring true.
I hate the way I fall for everything you do; our fate is flawed, that's why I make these break-up songs to sing to you.
Music is my only psychiatric drug, and if you were a pill in human form I'd like to hide under my tongue.
Kiss the foot that couldn't fit into the slipper of my mouth, the denizen in your house begging for the benefit of your doubts.
When I got kicked out, I played the faithful puppy dog; loyal to the love I lost, sitting at your fucking door in utter disbelief.
I sucked all of the skin off of my teeth; you pulled away, and let me choke on your invisible leash.
You can find me hiding these screams behind my eyelids; she blinded me (she blinded me) with silence.
So my airmail lips blew her a farewell kiss; slinking over the sink, where all the hair gel drips.
Stairwells dip deep into her mouth where I found a cycle, and ever since then I've been on a downward spiral.
This round is final, and it's time to recover, because it's a porch that some dogs choose to die under.
The first song was a breakdown, I apologize in round two,
this version, I’m certain, this shit ain't even about you…
it's the threewrite.
Pardon me, if you’ve heard it all before, "I didn't shake you to hurt you."
When you landed on the floor, in a room of naked virtues, I closed my eyes to cancel what I saw.
Your hand made the first move, to the handle of the drawer, where the frail girl couldn't think to live.
"I didn't shake you to hurt you."
I never planned it before. I can't shake off your perfume, can't wash my hands no more.
And I'm breaking my curfew, but I can't walk, I'm standing at the door…I hear the wailing of a little kid...and the failure of innocence.
His compromise, eyeing the side of the kitchen sink, what did you think? I just let you cut you, cut me? Cut the bullshit.
Damn, I love the hugs enough to tolerate, the way we made each other crazy, making it so tough to operate productively.
My self-esteem didn't help when I felt ugly and I figured that's the reason why you wouldn't trust me.
My ego does bleed, I shouldn't have let you test it, and let your arms free to follow up with your domestic slip up.
Love is a battlefield, so lick your shots quick, while I lick my wounds and then resume as an obvious target.
Infatuations with the past protect my Purple Heart with a faded picture I had in my shirt pocket.
I'm going out with a bang, in a blaze of glory holes, the anti-hero, and I don't care how many ways the story's told.
Just be careful when these doolies play like drums, and be careful what you say, because my uzi weighs a tongue.
This is to the sleepless evenings that I spent next to gravestones; hoping someone from beyond would grab my arm and take me home.
I hadn't accepted I'd have to make it alone, after feeding everything I had into a payphone.
And this is to the rain, I felt like it was made of spit, my parade was an unbreakable chain of Gabe's trumpets.
Save the buckets even though they weighed down my walking, you don't know the height of the steak you place your fork in.
“You look old.” That's what you said.
“I feel old.” That's what I said.
I’ve been through a lot since you’ve been gone, dead, born again, torn to shreds, over girls who were porcelain.
The crybaby dolls, when we were allowed to talk again, I stopped accepting wake-up calls – that ring true.
I hate the way I fall for everything you do; our fate is flawed, that's why I make these break-up songs to sing to you.
Music is my only psychiatric drug, and if you were a pill in human form I'd like to hide under my tongue.
Kiss the foot that couldn't fit into the slipper of my mouth, the denizen in your house begging for the benefit of your doubts.
When I got kicked out, I played the faithful puppy dog; loyal to the love I lost, sitting at your fucking door in utter disbelief.
I sucked all of the skin off of my teeth; you pulled away, and let me choke on your invisible leash.
You can find me hiding these screams behind my eyelids; she blinded me (she blinded me) with silence.
So my airmail lips blew her a farewell kiss; slinking over the sink, where all the hair gel drips.
Stairwells dip deep into her mouth where I found a cycle, and ever since then I've been on a downward spiral.
This round is final, and it's time to recover, because it's a porch that some dogs choose to die under.
The first song was a breakdown, I apologize in round two,
this version, I’m certain, this shit ain't even about you…
it's the threewrite.
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