You tell me I gotta bite the bullet.
Then you turn around and chant “Pull it! Pull it!”
Because you’re not the one diseased.
So you don’t really care if the trigger gets squeezed.
You sit in your chair studying my thoughts, my every word.
Notepad in hand, scribbling your diagnosis, which happens to be absurd.
Because you have no medicine to cure my pain.
Maybe I’ve just snapped and gone insane...
How ‘bout that one DOC!
Shhhh. Listen. “tick-tock” says the clock…
Enough with the therapy session.
An hour of your lies isn’t gonna erase my depression.
So quit feeding me doses of anti-depressants.
I don’t need a placebo, I need to hear a sensible sentence.
Some words that alleviate my fear.
Dry every last tear.
But you people just prick me with a needle that picks and picks.
Until I’ve endured a broken mind impossible to fix.
Doctor, you can’t draw a smile across my face.
You’ve never lived in this dark of a place
You don't understand.
It’s already been shot down my gullet.
So how am I supposed to bite the bullet?