CORRECTAR LA LETRA
Letra : PERSONAL MILTON WADDAMS
I've realized that even when I'm up, I'm depressed
My depression is separate to my emotion
It's job is to isolate and attack any positive feelings
And that's okay
Like, that's okay
I have lots of parts of me that have jobs I don't understand
That buzz around poking and pinching at this and that
Doing the job they were put there to do
My depression is one of them
It sits in my head with a big red stand marked "invalid"
And dutifully voids and feelings of hope or faith or happiness
Day up and day down
Until days lose distinction
And this poor little b*st*rd never, ever clocks out
I mеan, is it waiting for me?
To say "Hey, good job therе!
Get some sleep!"
Is it going to keep working harder and harder and harder
Until I tell it its efforts have counter for something?
That it wasn't just a mistake,
Or just the product of a staggering error in judgment?
Promoted not for its talent and work ethic
But because someone somewhere f**ked up the paperwork?
Your own personal Milton Waddams
Someone to hear your prayers and drip-feed you problems
And all it wants is to be it belongs there
And then maybe it will...
I don't know
I want to say stop there
But I don't think it needs to
A part of me with a preternatural knack for finding the tiniest speck of joy in a towering stack of meaningless data?
I could use someone like that
Give it more sociable hours
And some backdated holiday pay
And that f**king stamp, the one marked "invalid"
I'll buy my depression a new one that says something better
And if it still prefers the old one
Then maybe I'll just chisel off the first two letters
My depression is separate to my emotion
It's job is to isolate and attack any positive feelings
And that's okay
Like, that's okay
I have lots of parts of me that have jobs I don't understand
That buzz around poking and pinching at this and that
Doing the job they were put there to do
My depression is one of them
It sits in my head with a big red stand marked "invalid"
And dutifully voids and feelings of hope or faith or happiness
Day up and day down
Until days lose distinction
And this poor little b*st*rd never, ever clocks out
I mеan, is it waiting for me?
To say "Hey, good job therе!
Get some sleep!"
Is it going to keep working harder and harder and harder
Until I tell it its efforts have counter for something?
That it wasn't just a mistake,
Or just the product of a staggering error in judgment?
Promoted not for its talent and work ethic
But because someone somewhere f**ked up the paperwork?
Your own personal Milton Waddams
Someone to hear your prayers and drip-feed you problems
And all it wants is to be it belongs there
And then maybe it will...
I don't know
I want to say stop there
But I don't think it needs to
A part of me with a preternatural knack for finding the tiniest speck of joy in a towering stack of meaningless data?
I could use someone like that
Give it more sociable hours
And some backdated holiday pay
And that f**king stamp, the one marked "invalid"
I'll buy my depression a new one that says something better
And if it still prefers the old one
Then maybe I'll just chisel off the first two letters
