this is the bed that i have made | this is the grave where i will lay | these are the hands where i will bury my face | i don't believe in wasting time | searching for truth you never find | nobody moves | we live in the great decay
i want a lover i don't have to love | i want a boy who's so drunk he doesn't talk | where is the kid with the chemicals | i got a hunger and i can't seem to get full | i need some meaning i can memorize | the kind i have always seems to slip my mind | but you... | but you... | you write such pretty words | but life's no storybook | love's an excuse to get hurt | and to hurt | do you like to hurt? | i do, i do | then hurt me...
cryptic words meander | now there is a song beneath the song | one day you'll learn | you'll soon discern its true meaning | an interesting detachment | a listless poem of love sincere | desire, despair | overlapping melodies | and it's not a love, it's not a love | it's not a love, it's not a love song | it's not a love, it's not a love, it's not a love song | it's not a love, it's not a love, it's not a love song
notes in his pockets, rumors in the mill, phone calls after the bars close – unlisted numbers | if she only knew, then he’d be through – but who knows which parts are true | she hates how it looks, but what can she do? the girls all talk behind her back, they say she’s being used
paper snowflakes, they don't melt in the sunshine | plastic roses won't wilt, they'll be alright | paper snowflakes don't melt in the sunshine | and glass tears don't dry
