Most days I just get by. There's a storm churning in my mind. I've hated myself for so long that I don't know any other way. I've been beaten down by the voices in my ear. They whisper you'll never be good enough, you'll never be loved. I've been fighting the urge to drown myself in a pitcher. Or maybe the river out back. It's a pretty situation. I've been beaten down by the voices in my ear. They whisper you'll never be good enough, you'll never be loved. It's a pretty situation. Antiquated stations. Circles turning. Hands shaking. Picture contains a million words. I'm stumbling on the streets alone. It's a pretty situation.