Statistic

Armed with a blunt knife, a shoe lace
Words to describe a dying affection
My life is a story full of plot holes
Because I’m pathetic that way

Gum wrappers at my feet
With no name clothes and tinker toys
Distracting the eye from worn-out trinkets
That you said meant more than they really did

Can you really have too much humility?
The words that haunt my mind, my fingertips
You’re just another statistic with that voice
Words filled with acid and piss

I’m afraid of you, I hope you don’t know
I look around, everyone seems miserable
Is this what makes life fun?
Spitting that fact in an open eye

Breaking another pencil from the pack
Staring at the crack in the ceiling
Fire spews from my fingertips
Overflowing another of my voids