| It was somwhere around Sheffield where my conscious concedes. |
| Fiction halts,
|
| the drugs began to wear
|
| thin. |
| Colored obvious, the world slid off it’s tilt. |
| Waking up each night,
|
| from the gravitational pull.
|
| What is the sound of something trying not to make a sound? |
| So sick of all the
|
| same old shit, so spent on being sick. |
| Will everybody wake up before it gets too late? |
| Ghost wrote in the
|
| middle of the night,
|
| chocking and abvious. |
| Will everybody wake up before it gets too late?
|
| Always afraid, afraid of what the
|
| truth may bring. |
| The last horse has finally crossed the finish line.
|
| Long and clever titles doesn’t bring
|
| a clever song. |
| This show has been going down hill since season one.
|
| Just an open book reading itself to sleep… So sick of all the same old shit, so spent on being sick.
|
| Will everybody wake up (wake up, wakeup)
|
| before it gets too late? |
| Undone in the middle of the night, strinkingly obvious.
|
| Will everybody wake
|
| up (wake up, wake up) before it gets too late? |
| So sick of all the same old shit,
|
| so spent on being sick.
|
| Will everybody wake up (wake up, wake up) before it gets too late? |
| So tired…
|
| so tired… Will everybody
|
| wake up (wake up, wake up) before it gets too late? |