Sporadic
Why was I born
Was it so I can mourn
My youth
8 years old and losing a tooth
Now I'm old and I choose
To dwell on my mistakes
Tired of being fake
So I must make a change
Change for a 20
Actually I'm in my 30s
Things are no longer funny
And Im feeling dirty
Seeing birdies and stars
Left with hurtful scars
Chronic in jars
To ease my head
My thoughts are running crazy
All I see is red
Forget B.O.D.
You're certainly better off dead
Trying to kill my mind
But it's made of lead
Bullets do nothing
Got vains of steel
These knives aren't cutting
There is no fronting
So get to the back
Cut me some slack and wait for
the next track
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