Maybe if I had actually had a heart,
I would've had a shot.
But I don't even know where to start,
Because I'm nothing more than just an object, and I’m as sympathetic as a robot.
My blood is battery juice,
My bones are wires.
I'm just waiting to self destruct, and make my strings come loose,
Endlessly stabbing at myself, with a pair of heavy pliers.
I know that I don't mean much to anyone, and my luster is so dull,
With nothing more than a "rest in peace", written on my tombstone.
All alone in my casket at my funeral,
I should've seen it coming, because I've always known.
I can't describe the feeling of always feeling used,
Or never having that special someone.
But for me there's nothing more to lose,
Because I'm already six feet under, and property of no one.