Portraits Of Past - Bang Yer Head

Lower the voice and be recognized.
I, of course, see no reason to reply. Give me my just desserts give me my recognition, that proof. Remain closed all of those who dare to remain unchanged by your words. Pull back the hammer and take aim. And shoot yourself in the foot, shoot everyone else in the foot. Rid us of all meaning. The credit seems to be all yours.
And you're sure of your strength once more (and all could be dismissed with: "whatever, it's cool" and you could argue that it must be good or violent or irrelevant, but it isn't really any of those, and I guess I hate that attitude more than anything).

Don't shoot, don't show.
Push harder the plastic fork shards under my nails.
Things don't turn out like this even in our wildest dreams. What exactly is that smile? What is that smile on your face supposed to mean? "We both know I've got those thoughts and words too, but I guess I don't give them enough use."
[one]: Go back where you came from, I don't care, please go right now!
[other]: I wish I could but I seem to have forgotten how.

There are a few truths, and here's just one: I'm as f..cked up about as much as you're f..cked up. But beyond that there are only grasped straws and our own private/petty perceived flaws. Where's that gun? We should both use it.
Doomed from the start. Committed to failure. Simply mirrors all? Rejected selves live to fall.