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I wrote a story in the book of life today |
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I turned the page and then |
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I turned and walked away |
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Cause what |
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I wrote was just symbolic of the time |
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I've been surrounded by another state of mind |
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You do this, to gain control |
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You say that, to make yourself feel whole |
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You say this, just to be kind |
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I see it's all just a waste of fucking time! |
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Sometimes the problems freeze the pen that's in my hand |
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No rules provided that will make me understand |
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And then I think about the notes that |
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I just took |
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I look around, then turn around, then close the book. |
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Cause I see the writing how it can be |
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I write this paragraph to tell me that |
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I'm me All rules provided, symbolic of the time |
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It keeps me from falling into another state of mind |
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I do this, to gain control |
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I do this, to make myself feel whole |
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I say this, not to be kind |
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I see it's all just a waste of fucking time! |
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STIGMA!! |