experts: go home, nothing to see, not here, not forever.
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the 90's thinking man, 2002 dead man in us all.
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in search for volunteers for the death of passion, and it
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put nipples in the sky, the womb is all around us.
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the alien racetrack is us. afraid to make eye contact is us.
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walking blindly, counting credits we'll never see,
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green balloons carry your cars away to plant in egypt
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to be a plant in the sidewalk of a wheelchair
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race car driver. watery world, watery days;
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the water in my brain makes it hard to spot dry land, but i will fly again,
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fall again, but never on my pen.
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these eyes have seen one too many movies
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and i fear my parents counterprogramming outlived their own.
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there was no training for the hunt,
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but i put up a tent to daydream in (to daydream in).
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the freedom fighter calls life a nuclear nightmare.
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and if you don't like the tone of my sinking ship,
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pray for me while i cry for you.
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whoever i can't kill, my daughter will.
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and at night, in complete silence, i can convince myself i'm psychic
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as i walk through berkeley and wish i had a cause.
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i know it's bullshit, but it's all i can believe in.
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the more time i spend staring at people who never dare to stare,
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i also know it isn't hopeless if i'm thinking this.
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and avoiding cliche is like lying in my living room,
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staring at the ceiling, complaining about how ugly that it's getting.
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only two of my childhood friends escaped the experiment,
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some were killed, some became killers.
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some mourn a lack of ambition through parents
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who passsed on the nest 'til there were no worms left.
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the successful went on to go to college then do nothing;
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if you're their fool, you're everyone's fool and no one's friend.
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it's a native american thing, you'd never understand why
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i've learned to eat pain like a sunday snack,
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march to no tune, and got a collar and doggy biscuit.
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tim holland on shattuck on a roman holiday...
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self-taught master of sleepless hallucination.
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loveless thinking pill, make me eat my own vomit;
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learn it to dance for my sister's dog sake,
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my mother's mother, and my father's veins sake.
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they all wanna spill my guts into the street and wrestle me in it
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like i can't digest what i can't swallow
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for all the loveless pedestrians holding bloodless hands.
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and when alone with death for the first time, but realize it was there all along.
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the amusement park lines aren't as good as the in-my-head-lines:
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this is my newest installment in my latest last will and testament series.
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i see people who try too hard to be themselves
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and wanna throw them lines like no one is themselves,
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follow your guts to traffic.
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'cause your remote control dreams are worth more to you than to them.
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you have to believe me, i wrote this with a pink pen
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and my face never goes red when they ask what it means.
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misunderstand me in your perfect pose, while plastic seats scream, "your excellence,"
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your pretty putty padded ass.
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well-trained men learned to worship the lovenessness all around;
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shallowness is quite becoming.
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all the parts of life that are not mind-numbing experiences,
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throw your hats off to those of us who can run off cheap batteries and wine.
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we'd love to run you off the road and write a book about it.
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if you stood between the day the little pig took the big pigs out to dinner
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to eat them with barren hands
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that done wrote ten million words and never got my point across.
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like people afraid to be different wanna make a difference.
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most nights i sleep alone and freezing and have no dreams.
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tonight is different: awake and freezing, i have no skin
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left for my parachute.
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this advice isn't for you, it's for me; in my stomach forever.
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tomorrow they'll forget me 'cause i never learned to kill for oil but then again,
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i never learned to sit still and probably never will.
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feel the need to hide these beautiful places until my rich man's death bed.
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we can't sleep, i can't write at all in my room 'cause i had a girl there once,
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and the moral of the story is...
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and the moral of the story is...(there is no story).
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