[Intro]
Hey, what ever happened to that wordsmith song's B side?

Oh yeah, huh...

Damn, I miss my dog

[atlas]
I think that now I'd call myself a wordsmith
But not because of talent or ability
It's more that I can balance the facilities
Of living as a human, while I'm sittin' here decal-ing my soliloquies
And I guess it makes sense, in that regard
I use my brain as a capture card
Inhalin' every word I stumble upon
To try to catalog 'em all before the rapture starts

So you can tag along and follow all the wacky antics
Like all my stupid problems that relapsing can't fix
"Keep your head up out the sand, and stop scratching that wrist
Before you turn into another anxious ativan kid"
Well I guess it's too late... a couple hundred panicked states passed
And my broken self ran away fast
Feels like I lost my body in a hand grenade blast
With all this absence in my soul, and I can't evade that
So I'm stuck... trapped in a painting of myself
That was made before I changed how I felt
I'm hoping that my other friends can break out and help
But to be honest, it seems like they've grayed out as well
I constantly remember back to high school
Sneaking out to kick it with no pay stubs
Everything was simpler then, I guess
I only feel free when there's something to escape from

So I'll keep writing songs of longing for the olden
Looking to the future for my confidence and boldness
It certainly isn't here, and neither am I
But I think that we've established that enough to decide
That it's time for a change; or, rather, time to revert
'Cause we all sorta miss the designs that we were
And maybe nowadays what I write's more diverse
But the Patrick years back didn't understand hurt

And that hurts, pretty bad