I am the glass of spilled milk on the table, on the floor
i'm on the road to feeling nothing, feeling something
at least that's what they tell me to do
my stomach and its firework attitude
nothing is the same
they all turn their backs from what they want to say
when what they really want to say is,
""i am tired of this painful disguise.
exposition: saying that i'm fine,
and its alright coz we all die in time.""

i am your favorite only when i matter, when it matters
but more important things accordingly sorted into a chore
but can't be anything more

baby! you are a nuisance
everything's reminiscent, explosive
baby! you are a new thing
but not my saviour from this routine"