| I wrote a story in the book of life today |
| I turned the page and then I turned and walked away |
| 'Cause what I wrote was just symbolic of the time |
| I’ve been surrounded by another state of mind |
| You do this to gain control |
| You say that to make yourself feel whole |
| You say this just to be kind |
| I see it’s all just a waste of fucking time |
| Sometimes the problems freeze the pen that’s in my hand |
| No rules provided that will make me understand |
| And then I think about the notes that I just took |
| I put them down, I look around, then close the book |
| 'Cause I, I see the writing, how it can be |
| I write this paragraph to tell me that I’m me |
| All rules provided, symbolic of the time |
| It keeps me from falling into another state of mind |
| I do this to gain control |
| I do this to make myself feel whole |
| I say this not to be kind |
| What do I see? It’s just a waste of fucking time |
| Stigma |