All bent up inside again
nothing is really wrong, yet nothing is right
and has anyone notiiced that my room is my best friend
and the music has begun to make me feel ill
So I think of you, and the questions that I've asked,
but I don't really want to know the answers, but I do

And I wish that you weren't afraid, cause there is no reason to fear me or you or anything at all.

All bent out of shape again
Everythings allright, yet it all feels so wrong
and have you noticed that I have no friends
pull the CD out of that jewel case and let the headache begin
So I think of you, and the questions that I've asked, but I don't really want to know the answers, but I do.

You say you hate the word hypocrite, but that's just what you are. Why must everything contradict?