Its monday morning, pull on the mask of mourning

the perma-glue to hold it tight, the mask'll never fit just right

it stains my hands, my hair, my face

popularity is just a social race

a matching fake mind to whisper

"pretend to have confidence,

pretend to have strength"

Veins more twisted then my conscious

without a thought of being catious

I try too hard and end up lying

only left with a feeling of dying