So this will be the last time,
It’s written on your face,
And it’s been coming for so long,
How could you once think that I,
Would be happy with life?
When I could be sitting at home in my bed, drinking margarita,
With my dick getting sucked and my bank getting bigger,
And the words to these songs,
Are written right,
I wish they were wrong,
Because I’m sick of being tired,
I’m sick of being free,
And I pity the ones who walk the path I chose.
It’s out of control, your ego’s running wild,
And I cannot be a part of anything, even this noble,
I don’t believe,
Life aint what it seems,
I’m still doing things now that I thought cool at seventeen,
Because I’m sick of being tired,
I’m sick of being free,
This load gets lighter every day I’m gone
And I’ve stumbled and I’ve followed,
But just one thing I’ve learned,
The only way to fix a fucked up life’s at home,
Right back home.