It's my soul, It's my heart
It's my path to build or rip apart
And replant pretty little flowers
So many pretty little flowers
It's my flesh, It's my eyes
It's my breath to keep or monetize
And join those pretty little flowers
So many ugly pretty flowers
And it means nothing to you
Ya got yer own thing to do
And it means nothing to me
♪
It's my mind, It's my lips
It's my love at yer fingertips
It's my hate, It's my lies
It's my masturbation that made me go blind
And it means nothin' to you
Ya got yer own thing to do
I hope it's beautiful and free
♪
This is the crash
This the crash
I, Death, it's time to sell myself
And see how long I last
♪
It's my fire, It's my stress
It's my panic-induced cigarette
That I keep ashing on your flowers
Then put it out on those same flowers
It's deaf ears to my rage
It's condescending replies when I say
"I'm not a pretty little flower
And I don't want your fucking flowers"
Well that means nothing to me
I got my own thing to see