May 1st

I mean I’m the means to my own ends
Ending at the fact that I’m waiting for
A straw to crack my already bending back
And then
I snap
Now where the fuck Sims is at?
My limbs are cracked, forced to play the wolf
Chewing the cuff put glue in the cuts and move on
Giving a shrug to nuance
Given the way I’m living is similar to a prison
Inside I’m a blizzard outside is the image put on to survive the sight
I’m torn up inside tonight
Trying to find what’s right, trying to blind what’s wrong
Trying to find some light, so I glide on songs
But the design ain’t right and the siren’s on
So I’m out running again
Ducking the fucking gun in my head
Somedays
I can’t face myself, afraid my face might melt
And it’ll taste like hell, I can’t handle it
Dismantling, the stitches are falling out
This is Andrew Sims’ sorry self flipping the fuck out
And I can’t go back to back sleep
Well I’m up and I’m stuck running amuck in a rut
And
I can’t go back to sleep
In ’82 I mainly knew that something wasn’t right
But baby grew and found a crew that bruises tons of mics
I’m under pressure, bottle that up
He makes a record I gotta follow that up?
Follow that? Lace some new kicks and lay some new footprints
Afraid I might buckle, bust my knuckles trying to break through bricks
So I build a wall around myself so I don’t have to face that shit
Or taste the failing, chase the flailing loose ends
Now where are the saline solutions?
Escapee homosapien who found his haven in bruises
Definitely deafened by the daily deprecate
But it ain’t self hate, I just never walk on eggshell crates
Some days it’s plain it’s just time to face, reevaluate
Like I wonder if this record’s gonna get to
Then I rethink, I guess I don’t give a fuck
Wait, wait, yeah I do
I guess we all just want to be loved
I ain’t proud of that fact but I ain’t no angel
I’m just an honest man trying to buy Mom and Dad the promised land
I’m just an honest man trying to buy Mom and Dad what I can
If I was cut by the groove what the fuck would that prove?
Now should I open up and show my wounds to you? //
Or should I make some songs that make the room say “Doomtree”
This is the maze that I maneuver through
See I could break them through the roof and convince to you that it’s ablaze
But would it make a fucking difference in these apathetic days?
I’m more invested in bad credit, breaks and nervous rhymes
This one’s for the cats who caught the itch on the inside
This one’s for the masterpiece bathed in turpentine
Half my time is stupid rhymes, buying dimes, and bleeding eyes
The other twelve is spent waiting for my soul on a shelf
And I know I’m going to hell