Full Of Garbage

I don't know anything
I'm full of garbage
I am a heart glued in a machine
My moments of freedom are far and few in between
I'm part used and I'm usually clean

Dirty dishwasher soap suds
Left a bunch of messes
Left to much undone
Someone snap me out of this
Everything I said before right now is just a carcass
Hard shit the day I was born
Target to hit, starve them again
Say that I won't
Marketing pitch
As a means to catch a couple schools of fish
That play in the storm

What is the difference between a bump in the road
Or a little lump in your throat
When they say to stay and conform? Nothing
I could claim to have the answers and I do
The problem is if they don't work for me
Then what's that say for you?

Trips up north don't always go as planned
I just want my mothers hands touching my head
Who left the box of colored crayons on the bed
I guess it's time to dream awake and start drawing instead

Find the cure to the common cold
But first you have to meditate myself into a shamans soul
I am the goal, I am the one
Sacrifice it whole minus zero find the sun
Some say art heals a lonely heart
Don't worry, I believe it too
Throw the dart, hit the hype
Forgive me I have nothing sincere or clever
Needless to say I am bright and young forever right?

There's nothing better then counting cold money
I am an artist in other words, I'm ugly
Hungry, yet I hold the schedule
Process the pancakes and wash all the vegetables
When I get bored there's not much more a four second
Window to explore before I explode
American blood trained to just let go
Get real high, it's all you have to do to get low
Taught to indulge in the pleasures till we get hooked
Then feel guilty if I don't use the medicine you push
Look, it's all in good nature, good hands
Paid in good faith that one day I'll be a good man

My leg doesn't hurt it's just my body putting me in check
Physical frustration mixed with regret
Living like a pet pent up do a couple back stretches
Eat a smoothie and forget what I'm doing, no panic
Go to the studio write a little jingle for the sixth grade mix tape
Turn it into something beautiful and hope it gets played enough for me to get paid
Oh isn't this is just great, funeral
Money running Newport babies running laps
Round my inner maps tracks on a lunar pull, daily
Journey circuits ambush, universe crazy
I refuse to fret let new fuse mating come in due time
Make a subtle contribution
Strategic now, so puzzle my solution
I thought they'd rush in when I was truly being me
Eh wrong a shooting star covered in gold is poopy bronze

So I had to make the fool to introduce em to the heart
Glued in the machine that was singing the right part of the song
I wish that I could be exactly how I was before
But if i was then who would be the dummy that you now adore!