Being broken by her 
It’s the story of what we were 
Til I realised that I had to get up off my knees
And be the cure to my own disease
And it was distasteful and it was crude
And there are parts where they call me rude
When I try to express how I feel
And all this “psychosis” is real 
I just pretend it’s not 
When the seat gets hot 
And I’m sitting in a beanbag in Dean Swift
And even those days were a gift
As I listened to Marina and the Diamonds 
On a CD player in the meditation room 
And the bells of doom
Only reach me half of the time 
The rest of it I’m sucking a lime 
And crumpling up my face
Like all the Barry that went to waste
When he tried to lead me down the garden path
Like he knows nothing of the god of wrath
And it’s doubtful if I will ever see him again 
And he would not be my first choice in men
As he speaks a double innuendo
And I wonder what he defend though
When he grins and snickers
I blink and the candlelight flickers
And it wrong if I think St. Pat’s can be fun 
When everyone’s treating me like I am the one
It all circles round 
And every sound
Echoes cymbals 
And the vandals 
Can’t tear down my peace of mind
It happens when I succumb to the grind
And allow them to medicate 
Me like I’m a girl on a blind date 
As though there is no telling what these pills will do 
They assure me; they will help you
But I’m already epic, do you want me less so 
I dunno 
I know they think I’m crazy, sorry, “unwell”
I have half a mind to tell them all to go to hell
With their what have you’s and plurality 
Do they even know what walks the skin of me
I don’t think so though maybe some suspect 
I can tell when the veil is wrecked 
And someone just reaches through
To hold my hand and say “I love you”
Or just trip into my chair 
Hey Emmett, I’m glad you were there

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