everyone is talking to themselves (about themselves)

i'll crash and learn my lesson
that it always hurts worse
on the morning after, and
i taste the chemicals. cut my
throat, and isn't that a lovely
self portrait; lying face down
in the fair and pallid snow.

there's a resonance with
our discontent, and all our
pretty instruments make the
best sound when they're
breaking. all our lives
have been convicted
without any kind of plea.

in a letter written to
all my friends, the words
are smeared because
my hand drags along the
page, i hope they'll listen
to me. but you always
knew i hated them anyway.

surprise me with songs
and stories i've haven't
heard a million times before
that talk like they've seen
the instruments and wires
used to bring me to life again.
i don't think i can help them.

like playing an old record
what goes around comes around.
just play me an old record, please.