Coming Up Roses

Everythings coming up roses
And it always snows on june
The ceiling is writhing and screaming
But there is nothing wrong with me
Smile if it hurts, tears me apart
Crushes my heart, smile if it purges me clean of you
There is no "us" to speak of, there never was
And it strips me of my dashing manners
Would you like me more if my lips were cold?
Hope is a whore breeding monsters
In the undergrowth of my sleep
Feeding me lies to hold on to
And there is nothing wrong with me
Always outnumbered
In the gentle grind of ever passing years