Fame.

I remember my grandpa telling me if I could be anything, I could be famous.
Poor old man didn't know you have to have a personality to be famous.

Good God, if people knew this creature under my skin....
How often tears just roll off my cheeks into nothingness.

The only thing I really have to my name are fucking scars and a bag of weed.
Where the fuck will that get me? It could get me $30 in Vegas.

What the fuck is that good for? Enough to help me look good.
All I could do is sell myself, and fuck that.

Why am I so destructive? So fucking right-brained.
Got the heart of a poet, and its sad and singing.

Its so hard to feel and its so hard to taste.
My body is dying. I'm a fucking waste.

I don't wanna be famous, nor could I ever be.
Besides, I need smoke just to have a personality.