Feels like all you can trust is
your every impulse is wrong
the wrong time to get creative
the wrong time to sing a song
the wrong time to dig your heels in
and pick a fight
you're a true freak of nature
at never being right
and there's no rest
no destination no promised land
and what you've got to go on
fits inside one hand
Why can't I just swallow it
always make nice
Why after giving up
every natural vice
do I still wind up blinking
in the single hours of night
awestruck at my capacity
of never being right
and there's no rest
no destination no promised land
and what you've got to go on
fits in one hand
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