Don'T Read This

You come over, but you can't get my back, you say you're sure of your knowin', and our love was always wack, you come over, and I feel the pain- I am ashamed and regretful the same. You come over, and I come inside, not to be vulgar, but you beat me outta my pipe- sweet songs still sing- when I'm rockin' hard and hearing you bring, these are such grave emotions and I am still just bipolar, or so you plead. Wasted time feels nice, up until the moment where I have to break some ice, when I see the world without any glass- as its a big piece of **** that's still in my ass. Forcing grass into my face, feeling nothing when I'm out during the day- whoh! Did I just explain my name? Dark man smelling dank? ...Tasting sour, moving too fast for trains. Did I just bake? Cookies or cake? Something blank- that you can now fill in with all of the little things?