I write another story, but give this one a twist. My Pencil? It's a razor. My notebook? It's my wrist. I'm sick and tired of dealing with this shit, why can't they just accept me? They say they love the way I am but then criticize them. I'm not interested in being your a.t.m, or pretending to be your friend because we both hate them. Take your pain, put it into me, tell me everything I could never be. Make me feel like it's all unreal, lipstick lies and stiletto heels. Do you really enjoy living a life full of hatred? Being so cold, overlooked and outdated? Your thoughts are ancient, welcome to today, I'd be glad to show you around and help you find your way. I'm sick of hearing this fray, or hearing you say your cliche's and tell lies that betray. I paint another picture, but give this one a twist. My paintbrush? It's a razor. My canvas? it's my wrist.