Box.
The joke of it is I express myslef without purpose.
’cause I know,
It just sickens them what i consider fine.
Its just part of the curse, Im just trying to stay alive.
But o’l brown box nows me the best.
I live inside it, and it protects me from outsiders.
As I gentley sip this drink,
It gets a little cold.
I have some lack in future.
But thats no problem,
Maybe if they didint complain at all,
my box wouldent be so filled up with junk.
Im through with these pills that make me sit still,
Im sick of the things I do when im mad,
Like punching my nuckles into cardboard,
then falling asleep, dashboard tears.
But who was to say,
Im still living in that o’l brown box.
