You're a Typewriter.

I have a thousand things to say, and I've said them time and time again.  
I always thought I'd die before I'm old, but because of you, I might think twice.  
But if I've said I'd live for you, for nothing in return.  
I'm sorry, sir or madam gullible, it seems lying's all I've learned.  
   
Breathe with me, before this world tumbles to our feet.  
Hold on tight.  
It feels like I'm rushing, saying things wrong.  
My fingers are not made for a typewriter, and I'm afraid that's what your brain is.  
   
Do we speak the same language?  
No. I think we do not.  
Because while I gush about a story and life in between pages,
All you seem to care about, is your social life, a thing that does not include me.  
   
Still there's a meaning,  
A definition I dare not say.  
Maybe I'm just afraid.  
But you've made me this way.