| You’ve grown into this faceless mask and empty shell
|
| And, like a ghost of your indulgence, you wear them well
|
| Still haunting something, by your own hand, lost
|
| And you shiver with the chilling sense
|
| You’ve saved nothing for yourself…
|
| The lies, the games
|
| Devoid of guilt or shame
|
| Now you resent what you became
|
| And the reality of only you to blame
|
| You wander through each desperate hour and numbered day
|
| And long to hold each wasted moment spent in vain
|
| Still missing something you’ve slain so wrecklessly
|
| And ignored it through shortsightedness
|
| The thought that someday you might care
|
| The lies, the games
|
| Devoid of guilt or shame
|
| Now you resent what you became
|
| And the reality of only you to blame
|
| Now you resent what you became
|
| And the reality of only you to blame
|
| You’ve grown into this faceless mask and empty shell
|
| And, like a ghost of indulgence, you wear them well
|
| Still haunting something, by your own hand, lost
|
| And you shiver with the chilling sense
|
| You’ve saved nothing…
|
| Nothing for yourself…
|
| Now you resent what you became
|
| And the reality of only you to blame |