there's blood in the bugs you stomp
underground they still walk
it seems my purity falls short to your pride
i guess you can't understand when you've never lived outside
i object for the objected
we are all a mess of subjectivity
don't ever put a price on me
i fantisize like child to prize
daydreamer's disease till i die
take those liquored letters and burn them with your nerves
fuck yourself and tell me if it hurts