The cocaine, the life, the woman and the dead language

Stunted in my disgust, I bow.
Such as I am.
The idea of me is so easy to love,
the thought of me, but I can not do this,
I can not be a hypothesis.
Yes, I know,
I'm one of those who reviewed my funeral
too many times
and I can not scream.
Damn, how do I whisper it sharp?
Sharp enough to be heard?

How do I turn of my green eyes?
I blow your brain out over and over again.
Sometimes I cut my self open just for fun,
from my stomach to my throat.
The sound of a bone saw
is romantic in a clinical room,
and nothing is for real, nothing.
I do not even know where I've been
and the cat has it's claws in my hair.

The restless days,
when I pull myself to the end of winter
and I drive a car without a weapon license.
They will catch up with me.
Ah, you know how it is,
to be arrested for unlawful possesion of the soul,
escaping with life as a hostage,
to hear footsteps running in the head,
to panic.

Yes, I know my words are in vain,
and I will be forgotten quickly.
It's also what I want.
How I want it to be,
and I have worked hard
just to keep it that way.
There is still no book
for my name to be written in,
even if I wish it was.
It all have to dissapear,
the ugliness must be removed.
and I will not take any resignation.
I will not.