I think that now I'd call myself a wordsmith But not because of talent or ability It's more that I can balance the facilities Of living as a human, while I'm sittin' here decal-ing my soliloquies And I guess it makes sense, in that regard I use my brain as a capture card Inhalin' every word I stumble upon To try to catalog 'em all before the rapture starts So you can tag along and follow all the wacky antics Like all my stupid problems that relapsing can't fix "Keep your head up out the sand, and stop scratching that wrist Before you turn into another anxious ativan kid" Well I guess it's too late... a couple hundred panicked states passed And my broken self ran away fast Feels like I lost my body in a hand grenade blast With all this absence in my soul, and I can't evade that So I'm stuck... trapped in a painting of myself That was made before I changed how I felt I'm hoping that my other friends can break out and help But to be honest, it seems like they've grayed out as well I constantly remember back to high school Sneaking out to kick it with no pay stubs Everything was simpler then, I guess I only feel free when there's something to escape from So I'll keep writing songs of longing for the olden Looking to the future for my confidence and boldness It certainly isn't here, and neither am I But I think that we've established that enough to decide That it's time for a change; or, rather, time to revert 'Cause we all sorta miss the designs that we were And maybe nowadays what I write's more diverse But the Patrick years back didn't understand hurt And that hurts