The ground you walk on is praised,
and the air I breathe is hazed.
The air you breathe smells sweet,
and the feeling I feel is defeat.
The words you say are precious,
and the oxygen I get is a crutch.
The feeling you still have is hurt,
and my opinion to you is worth dirt.
The emotions you feel are a mystery,
and my chances are probably history.
The opinion of me you have is pathetic,
and all I need is a paramedic.
The way you make me feel is drastic,
and us being back together would be fantastic.
But I am a dreary fool,
and you classify me as a tool.
But I'm not giving up, no matter what,
no shit? I'm an idiot.