BPD lyrics

[spoken]
“My next song is called ‘BPD,’ where I explore black-and-white thinking like I accuse you of doing, and other things that make me explode.”

Mountains are like tiny fractal fragments from the cosmos
Fragmentin’ cymbals into what, on Earth, might inspire
It’d take Everest to undo my pretensions, Los Alamos
Or what my coherence of reason and God might sire

But, wait
You can let your yolo take over
(You only live once)
Man, I can’t even remember what anger feels like
Can you imaginе? You?
Endin’ somethin’ like the Sеcond Comin’?
(When I’m mad, I only think that I want to die)
Can you imagine? “You”?
Endin’ somethin’ like the Second Comin’?
(When I’m mad, I only think I want the Earth to fry)

Yeah I got BPD
Thought I had got ridda it, too
But riddle me this
After meeting you
Why is it back?
Why is it back?
Nietzsche thought it was impossible to see upside-down
Your brain automatically amends your perspective around
You can only “pretend” to misread my smile for a frown
I’ll put your laughter to bed—after yolo? It’s Pound Town

Hades, we’re here
You can always let your impatience take over
(“You only live once”)
Man, I don’t even remember what hope might feel like
Can you? Can you even imagine
Endin’ somethin’ like a timeless suspicion?
(When I’m grounded? I only “think” I can be mad)
Can you imagine? “You”?
Endin’ somethin’ like man’s last intermission?
(When I’m grounded, I only “think” I can lose my cool)

Yeah I got BPD!
Thought I had got ridda it, oh
But riddle me this (riddle me this)
After meeting you
Why is it back? (Hm? Was it your face?)
Why is it back Jim? (Hm? Why you and not them?)
Why is it back Mitch?

You can make the Second Coming feel
Abandoned by God
It’s just your existence
You’re the face-a persistence
You can make the Second Coming feel
Like Satan—will—win—everywhere
It’s just your existence (It’s just something ’bout
The way you’re faceless)
Define Jim and Mitch
As human self-righteousness
Dirty money-lovin’ snitches
Ring your rosies dirty Mitches
Define Jim and Mitch
As conceptual closed-mindedness
Work thee honey-lovin’ bores
Sing my praises (oh, din’tchu hear?)
Harvard’s Christ’s b*tches
(Oops) (“You wanna say that again?”)
Harvard’s Christ’s Mitches
That’s my East Asian accent for
“Have a very merry Christmas”

Have you ever pleasured yourself to
A deepfake better than porn?
Just imagine Jim’s face
Carrying all conceptual thorns
You just want people
Who have less than you, man
To have more self-control
Than you would in their shoes
Resentments run through you, ain’t that right Mitch?
You don’t even respect yourself (let alone “Him”)
Everybody in the future loves to sh*t on your faith
It’s okay—“We make holograms when we’re bored sometimes” (dumbass)
So we can potty-train our children on your face
Your face made good and bad make sense (don’t you love it, Jim?)
We need faces, the Holy War must generate pottable truths
Like nuggets bein’ squeezed out of a factory for McDonald’s
All of art history existed for the beauty of seein’ it
Ooze on your face
See it ooze into anus-hot butterfly patterns
As it thickens into your face
Must be claustrophobic (like paste) from your perspective
Seeing the life you once loved so much just—drown like this
(Drownin’ in butterflies, butterflies)
Drownin’ in the Second Coming’s Butterball effects
What is it like drownin’ in other people’s oversights, Jim?
What is it like being simulated to be buried in sh*t?
Mitch
Yeah I got BPD
Thought I had got ridda it, oh
But riddle me this (riddle me this)
After meeting you
Why is it back?
Why is it back?

Yeah I got BPD
Thought I had got ridda it, oh
But riddle me this (riddle me this)
After meeting you
Why is it back?
Why is it back?

The Holy Spirit’s all about slowin’ down
The Holy Spirit’s all about wonderin’
If I might be wrong