I struggle in most of my songs
About how deep to get,
But before I can make up my mind,
I'm at the bottom of the deep end out of breath.
I'm tired all the time.
I'm cutting my own line.
Writer’s block has building blocks,
And built these walls around me.
I don't feel lucky in here,
Buried in my head,
I'm seeing red and nothing else.
I feel mad all the time.
I'm afraid of heights
But I'm done with this place
So, I want to go up,
Until we run out of space.
I feel like I expired in Houston last year,
Watching my friends finish college,
while I'm all alone out here.
I'm tired all the time.
I'm cutting my own line.
My sneezing fits
Will never let me focus,
My brains and my hands
Entirely both know this.
I feel most safe in my bedroom,
Climbing the walls of my head room.
So keep out of my room because
I think I've seen enough of you today.