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all the saintâs in the cellars hiding beneath the art they made
whoâs to say a miracle can be measured visually
Iâm over my indifference cause it doesnât fit
art is hell and Iâm not the poster boy for it
whoâs to blame, I guess itâs me
felt like shit when I got the call
whoâs to blame, I guess itâs me
ruth, Iâm sorry, I gave up because I was weak
you taught me better, that will endure
all the things you lived for through me
fold me out on the bed I made
I disrespected myself and from where I came
double stitched my problems to every spot I lay my head
till there was no room left for me in my bed
hiding out or hiding in
Losing time or cutting risks
Spacing out or disconnecting or spitting shithead prose in the wind?
Ruth, Iâm sorry, I gave up because I was weak
you taught me better, that will endure
all the things you lived for through me
shithead prose for a human dynamo
how can something so ugly give the world some thing beautiful
I pass my time with the simple wonders of day to day
Iâm not sure there is another way
but I do try when I think of whoâs given me
the opportunities I passed on to find myself
and where am I after years of searching
still 12 years old at 24
Iâm still 12 years old at 24
Iâm still 12 years old at 24