| There is a certain way we move these chains
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| like a watch in a box that doesn’t tell time but instead just gives it
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| it all starts to bleed into miles that separate
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| or phone calls that aren’t on pace
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| like the chemicals my grandfather gave me
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| disarrayed and misconstructed
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| the wrong blend
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| but my only vice is the will to give in
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| to the only feeling that has ever felt worth it
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| excuse-less//trying to figure out what’s worth keeping
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| when I don’t hate anyone else half as much as myself.
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| It numbs in the never ending quiet that burns my eyelids
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| learning to learn between the lines of
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| «I want you to be free»
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| I want to return to the water.
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| To drink in the sex//sleaze//mud//greed
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| Put a gun in the mouth of the sky and just (breathe)
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| or to where I can bathe in my own conscience.
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| Sometimes I wake up in the ER with a needle in my arm
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| or in the back of a mangled car
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| in the silence before the light comes
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| but it always ends the same with a flood coursing through my veins
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| trying to find words to lay out the things I could never say
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| the way the world picks at my brain. |
| How I can’t watch you leave.
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| Blood is blood
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| but as everything comes and everyone goes,
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| «love is love,
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| return to dust.» |