1/10
On a scale from one to ten
I’m a five. No, let me try again:
That middling ground just doesn’t seem
To judge me quite enough.
I mean it’s kinda hard to rate yourself
When you just fucking hate yourself,
But maybe I’m being overly rough.
On a scale from one to ten, hey, I’m a six.
Oh wait, but no, because the stones and sticks
That hit me picked their target for a reason.
I don’t know if I can safely say
I’m above average. Well, anyway,
Blame low rates on lacking moral cohesion.
But hey my therapist, he told me
That I’m better than the old me
That I’m used to: the one who
Started fires just for fun and
Yeah, in truth, I do help others
Whether they be friends or lovers
Or just strangers in the street
Whose time blooms full but then dies young.
But now me looking in the mirror
Doesn’t make high numbers clearer;
No I only see my guilty face reflected in the glass.
I’m a flawed, imperfect piece of shit,
And when you get right down to it,
Six out of ten is far too good
For my immoral ass.
Let’s take a point off for misanthropy,
Another for my lethargy,
Another for the fucks I give (cause I don’t give a lot).
And then take off one more for callousness
Brought on by the paralysis
I feel from trauma that I tried to heal but I could not.
Then take two more away for living
Above poverty, and giving
Almost nothing in comparison with what I have to give.
Then take three more from the equation
For suicidal ideation
Even though I have a daughter who depends on me to live
Ain’t I a fucking piece of work.
A stupid, selfish, broken jerk,
And from reading this back to myself,
I honestly don’t know
Why I should bother to rate myself
When I obviously hate myself
And cause I’m down to one:
There’s nowhere lower I can go.
