Painting over portraits again, I pretend
This isn't how I knew it would end.
Cause there are no more pages in my book

And there is too much ink in my pen



So now I'm wishing that the cycle would end, so then
I'd learn to be somebody's man
Cause there is too much history for the history books

And I'd like to start them again

I hate me, so unoriginal

No other feeling could feel so traditional
Cause every year I end up here
I end up here


So now you hate me?
Oh, how original

Well I'm used to it
Lone, individual
Another year and I'm still here

And I'm still here

Looking in the mirror, I'm sure I'm sure

And I didn't do those things from before
Cause there is no more time left on the clock
And you are walking out the front door


So now I'm learning to be wrong even more, the !@^%
The emptiness I try to ignore

Cause there are no more bullets in my gun
And I am trying to prepare for a war


I hate me, so unoriginal
No other feeling could feel so traditional
Cause every year I end up here

I end up here

So now you hate me?

Oh, how original
Well I'm used to it
Lone, individual

Another year and I'm still here
And I'm still here


And you say,