En Tu Propia Bilis

In Your Own Bile

Dude, what the hell's been going on with you lately?
Look, if you’ve got a problem, let’s talk it out,
but stop acting like this.
Seriously, man, this is some serious paranoia,
and you know my patience has its limits.

You were just a kid with your quirks like everyone else,
You didn’t seem like a bad guy anyway.
Too introverted? Maybe, I don’t know.
Maybe keeping things to yourself hasn’t done you any good.
More than once, I stood up for you,
and if it was necessary, yeah, I took a hit for you.
I helped you out with your stuff, and I promise,
I don’t regret it, I did what I felt was right.
I don’t know if it’s the drugs or bad influences,
or something pathological clouding your mind.
Your response, talking about it was always tense (shut up),
you drifted away from reality under the pressure.
You’ve got a problem and you don’t want to see it,
you’ve completely changed who you are.
I’ve put up with more outbursts than I should have,
I can’t take it anymore, it’s not betrayal to warn you.

Stop hurting yourself, quit the hate,
own up to your responsibilities.
Blaming others isn’t gonna help you,
you’re drowning in your own bile.
Stop hurting yourself, quit the hate,
own up to your responsibilities.
Blaming others isn’t gonna help you,
you’re drowning in your own bile.

That blonde you liked isn’t with you anymore,
and months ago you both decided to go your separate ways.
Because of your sick jealousy, you’re not even friends.
You call it heartbreak, but it’s harassment, your punishment.
You threaten and insult her in texts,
she’s got protective friends, and you give them a reason.
You’ve gotten yourself into a real mess, and it’s normal.
I’m not violent, but if you do that to a friend, you’ll end up in trouble.
And now you deny it’s your fault, saying the world mistreats you,
accuse me and hide from the truth like a rat.
You point fingers at everyone else without looking inside,
you think everyone’s out to get you, you think you’re the center.
And you defend yourself from enemies that don’t exist,
you’re spewing your guts out twisted by resentment.
I don’t care about you anymore, you’re starting to be a joke,
you’re pushing away the people who cared about you.

Stop hurting yourself, quit the hate,
own up to your responsibilities.
Blaming others isn’t gonna help you,
you’re drowning in your own bile.
Stop hurting yourself, quit the hate,
own up to your responsibilities.
Blaming others isn’t gonna help you,
you’re drowning in your own bile.

The traumas from problems at home,
the girl who cheated on you with a musclehead.
Your mom’s in a cult, your dad’s an alcoholic,
everyone’s got their cross to bear, their rough patches.
With your attitude, you’re just making it harder for yourself,
and when everything falls apart, your madness rolls in the mud.
Paranoia, you leave your body at night,
you dream of killing, right? You hear voices.
You hate me, you want to hit me,
I’m glad you lack the guts, the ability.
You know that the crazy ones who also have guts
end up in the loony bin, it never fails.
You see everything dark, you’re losing control,
knives, hangers, necks, and ropes.
Hate against me or against yourself, does it even matter?
I did a lot for you, but you don’t remember anymore.

Stop hurting yourself, quit talking,
own up to your responsibilities.
Blaming others isn’t gonna help you,
you’re drowning in your own bile.
Stop hurting yourself, quit talking,
own up to your responsibilities.
Blaming others isn’t gonna help you,
you’re drowning in your own bile.

Fish memory, that’s what you’ve got,
and something’s not working between your temples, look at yourself, you can barely hold on.
And you tell me over and over again,
(And who the hell are you to talk to me like that? I’ll make you break through walls.)
I’m the voice of the little reason,
of the thread of sanity that still lingers inside you.
And I’m asking you to react and do yourself a favor,
maybe you’re still in time to see a doctor.
Bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, a bit of everything?
Huge inferiority complex, neurosis.
Schizoid tendencies or drug-induced psychosis.
(Damn it, get out of my head, I’m not crazy.)
You’d kill everyone who tells you the truth,
but you can’t, and your impotence will swallow you whole.
So let the smoke from the exhaust pipe in your car,
and sit there to breathe until you only feel peace.