After awhile, your, your cheap talk don't even cause me pain, so let your bullets fly like rain.
I wanted to be listened to. I don't know if they were or not, though.
Be respected as being new, and probably a decent change or a help for the human race or whatever, instead of keep carrying the same old burdens around with you.
All I'm gonna do is just go on and do what I feel.
A broom is drearily sweeping up the broken pieces of yesterday's life.
When I die, I want people to play my music, go wild and freak out and do anything they want to do.