Withered
I have a white-knuckle grip
On what the fuck’s going on
If the world is a stage
Then that explains
Why the news anchors are actors
My bony fingers are growing sharp
Plucking their wool from my eyes
I have a white-knuckle grip
On what the fuck’s going on
We write our own tragedy
They just won’t see
That they can't write it for us
I can feel my gray matter slipping
Squishing between my fingers
I have a white-knuckle grip
On what the fuck’s going on
She asked me then
Why do you keep fucking up?