I skipped class and rode the number five bus all the way east, just to see where it ends. I smoked a cigarette at udall station, got back on the bus again. We've been this way since you met me: hearts not heavy, but empty. And once a song could raise me up, but now there's nothing, so I stumbled home a broken man with blood on my hands, dead on my feet, shot down where I stand. With blood on my hands, dead on my feet, shot where I stand. Freedom is beautiful and terrible, it's nothing soft and sweet. It's used bullets on the side walk, fires across the street. It's you moving in with your new boyfriend in Oakland. It's a pack of wild dogs on a road without a street lamp. It's roaches in the bathroom, mice in the kitchen, and no one left to blame for the way I've been living. It's mice in the kitchen, roaches in the bathroom, and no one left to blame. I woke up late and missed class again, so I brewed a pot of coffee and went back to bed. Snatch some bread selling junk from the back of the shed. Hop the fence, because the front's being watched by the feds. We've been this way since we've been alive: reckless and shy, so I set fire to the house and took off running. I hope that you won't mind. I burned down the house to get myself out of this hell alive. I burned down the house to get myself out. I hope you don't mind. Freedom is nothing soft and sweet, it's beautiful and terrible. It's admitting everything that I don't want anyone to know. It's telling people that I love I stole from them when they weren't looking. It's fucking up so many times that they won't pick up when I call them. It's watching people die because they got back in it, and knowing that I don't have any say in it. It's watching people die, and knowing I don't get any say.