I'm not a poet I'm just troubled in the head, This isn't a song of love it's a song about wanting you dead. I've got good news and I've got bad news
Jealousy crawls into bed with me i let her have her way and all she left was a ghost of an unappealing presence to permanently remind me i always want
It's twelve twenty three And this awkward silence is getting to me Oh how I hate that feeling. Laying lights off in my bed, Keep telling me that
You insist on explaining the obvious. When it's pointless and I'm heartless for saying, What's really on our minds. Your words go to rhythm, while
Keep quiet sweetheart don't say another word, Let your body do all the talking And let mine take yours for granted. Because I'm thinking the worst
