What the fuck am I good for? The art of an artist is worthless. I’m wordless to all of my kinfolk. They try to break me but I’ve been broke.
What the fuck am I good for? My passion’s becoming heartless. I generate words and they turn into songs. They try to save me but I’ve been lost.
I’ll travel to Seattle where there coast can break my fall if I fail to discover if my life has meaning at all. I’ll trace all of these streets like they were inside my veins, and I’ll beg just like a child asking for my life to change