Alone every night,
I don’t feel right.
I can’t decide
what to do. I
try to describe
what I’m feeling inside
but my pen goes dry.
I’m calling it off.

Instead, I get high,
stare in the eyes of
some girl from Prague,
scared and lost,
baring it all and
apparently home on
the screen of my phone.
Now I’m calling it off.

I need a fucking jump, man.
I need something.
I need a fucking jump.

If someone knows something,
then probably they’re lying.
Yeah, or living in a dream.
I’m living in a nightmare.

I could call it a day—
what am I trying to say.
It’s all gray in the gray,
that old fog of the brain.
I go soft in the paint and
stay sopped in the rain but
still could swallow the bay.
Oh I’m calling it off.

Back, trapped in the maze,
that body ablaze,
refracted in pain.
My nowness has waned.
It takes valor to change
out of a pattern of shame,
extract the air from the flame.
Now I’m calling it off.

I need a fucking jump, man.
I need something.
I need a fucking jump.

The thread is fraying.
Who are you,
who are you to me?

If someone knows something,
then probably they’re lying.
Yeah, or living in a dream.
I’m living in a nightmare.