1,001, Actually

Well, it’s strange, it’s obscene, but please, don’t make a scene.
I’m in over my head,
And the terrors and shrouds are yelling louder than loud 'cause I’m not in my
bed.
And you with no sense of tact looked at me so abstract that it caught both my
eyes,
And my arms as a nest, your face hit my chest as you started to cry.
And I know a thousand times I’ve said: «With me you’d be better off dead.»
And I built these walls not to keep you out, but to see if you would be the one
to break them down.
Look at the state of things.
Wrap yourselves in toiletries:
The motel of our mind.
All our pictures in mind are what we left behind in the gathering gloom,
But I miss your straw hair which you tossed with a flare when I entered the
room.
Oh, and the residue of me and you will always be my cross to bare…
Oh, I was the thirty-first man to fall into your plan and that’s my cross to
bare…
I’m still as a stone just waiting for this lonesomeness to fade
and people tell me: «Cheer up kid!»
But they don’t feel the hole like I did…
Ripping, tearing, clawing, glaring, gnashing, mashing
my chest bearing my heart to the world until it bursts.