It’s a day with a Y in it, so obviously I’m over it.
I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.
And I’ve tried not to worry, and I’ve tried being sorry for being
Born in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Because I’ve been
Messed up, stressed out, talking to myself again,
Locked up, left out, terrified of everything,
Wound up, found out, waiting round for something to give.

Don’t you ever wake up and suspect
That you were simply never cut out to be
The kind of person they expect,
The person you intended to be.
And I keep it all in with my idiot grin,
And I’m doing my best, but there’s very little left,
So cut me some slack if I crawl back into my shell:
I haven’t been doing so well.

I got a brand new name for an old, old friend:
The doctor said it’s “anxiety”.
And it makes a lot of sense because I’ve been so tense
Some days I find it difficult to see.

Because I’ve been
Hemmed in, penned down, struggling to find myself,
Caved in, cut down, scared of everybody else,
Dragged in, dragged down, searching for a reason to live.

Couldn’t you tell?

If self loathing was a sport, I’d be Muhammad Ali,
Because I can sting like a butterfly and sink like a bee.
But they don’t hand out medals to monsters like me...
Oh well.
I haven’t been doing so well.
Maybe I could do with some help.

Every day I wake up and suspect
That I was simply never cut out to be
The kind of person they expect,
The person I intended to be.

Because I’m not Joe Strummer, not Muhammed Ali,
Not a teacher, not a builder, just uncomfortable me,
And maybe, just maybe, I’ll admit that I could use a little help.
I haven’t been doing so well.