what if i don't want to get better
spend my day in solemn splendor
the kind of joy that makes you want to die all the time

its not depression, dont give it a word
they can be misused for personal gain
or convenient excuses

i used to chain it up in the backyard
and beat it when i felt weak
i thought we deserved the confusion, the pain

and now you want me to get help
like thats even what i'm after
the kind of joy that makes me want to die all the time

what if i still can't think about the present,
always occupied with how terrible it is to be ninety-nine
or what more i'll suffer before i do