Living is traumatic

i'm sick of being subverse, you see, I want it reverse

you get what you pay for and you won't be reimbursed

this isn't coded verse, another fifth grade curse,

or more Garbage lyrics of who had it worse

but if life's like a game, and pain's the competition

how have i had it this hard, but i'm hardly even winning?

if my sins are forgiven, well I still ain't done sinnin

how have i lived all these years, but i still ain't done livin?

it just goes on forever, til you drop dead, or give in

til you buy in, or sell out, til the thing pile run out

there's no ETA, whether devout or with doubt, a nonspecified amount

of drama, of trauma, of please, no, i don't wanna

but it never stop from keep happening,

in an era they call The Slackening

but it's the age of anxiety, bad irony,

online piracy, and never fucking silently!

come join my millenial dynasty, where we don't allow sobriety

or any right to privacy, but it's not like society

it's just a sibling rivalry, us against psyschiatry

and we'll be what we're prescribed to be,

and from our cage, we'll call it free

but it's no use, like any alien could deduce,

it's animal abuse, walking ourselves like a dog on a noose,

with two screws loose, swallow poison, but call it booze

and talk about the brews, the bruise? Our dues?

And to mind your p's and q's! the whole world is a ruse,

that we don't get to choose, like it was written by dr suess

introducing, The Big Confuse, it speaks only in kazoos,

and eats silver spruce, it preys on existential excuse

and dresses only in chartreuse, but i heard it graduated from syracuse

it was in the news, or one of my so called breakthroughs

about who i'm supposed to accuse

of this unintelligent design, whoever made it, didn't refine,

before they spun it out in time, a picture of artistic of crime

a species peaked, must now decline, and we'll all be disatsified

because life is traumatic, like we're all flowers in god's attic

with no mothers, fucking our own brothers, made up of numbers,

dithering away in cement structures, looking for the meaning of life

in Rutgers, and bad instructors, yeah we're all suckers

just looking for a nipple to latch, a feeling to catch,

and a bandade to patch, all this mismatched suffering,

no bluffering, cause what i've been discovering,

is no matter breed or coloring, we all need a little mothering