lirik lagu dead celebrity status - them (a prelude)
i remember the old me
the one that was hesitant and simple
afraid, tolerating, invisible
only notice when i was at the end of a punchline or a punch
and punchline hurt more
with a bruised ident-ty and a shattered perception of who i was
i can find myself to a carousel
a merry go round, i was less merry and more toxic
a systematic awkwardness
a discomfort in disconnect with salvation
a punishment deserved
a loneliness inherited because i did not fit in with them
i lingered in a constant nightmare
sleepwalking my days away
helplessly, hopelessly, horrified
an inperfection waiting for surgical hands to reach down and light bulk suck my existence
from a world that had widiculed and b–by trapped me into an empty sh-ll of worthlessness
when will it stop
i remember the day i stopped trying to figure out who i was
and instead i asked the question
“why do they hate me?”
because hate is conveniently fueled by fear
and fear is a much easier emotion then courage
so why are they scared of me?
why did i not fit in, with them?
armed with poison tip tongues they released the stockpile of venomous delusions and hatred
freak, weirdo, f-ggot, loser, misfit, different they howled
but you see
my lexicon does not socom to your meaningless ignorance and lack of originality
my shoulders have carried the weight of a thousand voiceless screams
so i stand here before you and say
“do your worst”
words are wind and your weapon of choice will no longer com-show me
you will no longer render me inferior
so while they dwell in that pidiful superficial cave
the flames of the worrying fire dance upon the wall
they remain mentally shackled
possessed by puppet shadows, projected before them
distorted vibrations coc–ned by unaware
cookie cutter personality with hollowed minds
for that is their reality
they tried to confind me to the night
but i like the taste of the dark
and as i looked through the cracks in the wall an untangled a caught webs of thought
i finally know who i am
i will no longer be backhanded or backstabbed
i can no longer backpaddle and blackout
i will no longer stand still and fear the worse
i’ve got a fettish for destruction and an appet-t for creativity
razerbladed teardrops trickle down and slice my face into puddles of emotional distress and actualization
i will no longer be tormented by illusion that being different is being wrong
a throwaway kid they called me
and a throwaway kid i am
no longer empty and alone
finally happy
that i will never fit in, with them
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