If I be wicked, woe unto me; 
and if I be righteous, yet will I not lift up my head. 
I am full of confusion; therefore see thou mine affliction; 
"there's no guarantees in life but death and taxes" they said 
There's nothing in this world 
but land and sea, and all the wasted space in between. 
No one with a conscience deserves their conscious. 
And I am no different, so why am I always standing alone? 
I don't sleep anymore I just lie awake 
writing down every mistake that I ever made 
and the pages are filling quick. 
Overanalysis is the understatement. 
My anxiety is the white knuckle grip. 
I don't claim anything above the rest 
except my ability to recognize I'm not like the rest. 
My stomach in a constant knot, 
my heart is constantly in my throat. 
Do you know what its like 
to feel the need to be something 
but when I look in the mirror 
and see me, I see nothing? 
[It is not the still surface of river Acheron 
that reflects this regret-rich, guilt riddled past upon me. 
It is the faces in those fathoms. Falchion glares, fastening. 
Awful eyes, wide. So awesome a terror that I am awe-impaired. 
Such sunken, filed hearts once funneled blood to fingers 
carving skin like lovers etching forever 
into park bench or tree limb. 
Culled by currents coursing toward His Darkness' grim harvest, 
I, amid the souls I sought to transcend, am them; I am the dead.] 
 [bad word] day by day with woe is me 
As I open my eyes to this dead world I see its really woe are we. 
We, one and all, are killing ourselves. 
We are the cause of all this wrong, 
and I am the first to say I am the curse.