I was born in a house and I have been making up for the lost time in a hospital
Crumbling like empty promises sold to you at a discount
This time I won’t count how my life has been auctioned off at hospitable prices
Going! Going! Gone! Sold!
The hospital is the best place to be famous
Sick guy, too weak to speak or sit or stand
Just there while the crowd defames him
With labels like you’re too slim, too tall, too stupid, too poor, too unworthy to think
Too often I have let my guard down so that the security at the gate would gain access and
remind me of what a failed project I am.
The doctor seems to forget, the worst thing isn’t been sick or dying of a disease
The worst thing is being able to afford medical care that can’t afford you.
It’s true, my life is at the mercy of people who see mercy less than a merciless criminal
It’s funny how rhymes describe your pains more than a doctor can
There was a time when I uploaded my problems to the music box
In hopes that when I played them
They’ll sound like mended melodies with rhymes that rhyme with my present amendment
But problems aren’t programmed to be that beautiful
Prognosis says that talking too much about your problems glorifies them
Prognosis says that pretending your problems don’t exist denies them
Prognosis is a bitch seeking for attention
My affection is geared towards solutions
But life isn’t here to help you
You have to figure out the way else it’ll fail you
Now you know why I build dramatic castles in the air
With raw materials from the pains I harbor
Hammer on to my worries because that’s the only time my head feels safe
My friend, don’t complain about the tools, it makes you a bad workman
Just wash them in my tears and dry them with my will to survive
You must think that I am Mary with the alabaster box
But here in Alcatraz, the only person who makes sense is insane
I am crazy enough to stop finding the cure
You think I am giving up? No, I am taking it away. It’s mine anyway.