There is no righteousness in those Vicodins, but you keep killin your body, Names of people we lost, you become one of them, Lost in the people you loved, mimicked by your addicted self, a pitiful hell, No longer is little Stan remembered, but little Stan is withheld. By his addicted self; what a pitiful hell No slits on my wrist, just needles in my skin, One more injection, just one more dose, I want to lose that weight, fuck all but comatose, I want my mind cleared, for you to be compelled, by my addicted self, yeah A man of my word, unless it is addiction, because that is my world where I can make my own fiction, Where I can pretend they give a fuck about my year, about my future, like when I had to drop out at the age of 16, because no one wanted to deal with someone mentally untweened, So hard to intervene, and make me be okay, Its okay, we will meet again some day There is no righteousness in those Vicodins, but you keep killin your body, Names of people we lost, you become one of them, Lost in the people you loved, mimicked by your addicted self, a pitiful hell, No longer is little Stan remembered, but little Stan is withheld. By his addicted self; what a pitiful hell