We are creating a soap opera
There are limited parts and it's all about that drama
Follow me as we walk to slow ruin small pieces of ourselves
Pieces unwilling to be grown or transformed
Walk past the florist
The roses you never recieved
Look at the ground as we continue this road
Until we get shop of the unattainable
Let me see your eyes well up suitably
let me see you cry it out for all the things you can't have
It's a soap opera just engineered to pull that emotion
To interact with your sensitivities
The ones the audience says you have just to manipulate me
Pout shout and then grant me your worked silent treatment
The florist window lets you see in at every flower
You can't buy yourself one, without feeling silly
And here at the end of our journey
Is the shopping mall where you acquire your soul
Which is just a machine to purchase those expensive things
To validate the void beyond the smooth surfaces
Trinkets and jewels to make you shine even when the flesh fades
Little ouija boards that conjure the envy and coveting
In that novel soap opera in your head
Where you are so busy with your emotions
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