| within a dream i try to catch myself,
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| and awakin myself before i dream of something else,
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| and have the greatest song ever wrote.
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| and with a hazy eye i bring myself upright,
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| grab for my pen and scoll to bare my soul and i hope
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| the hand can translate my flow.
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| for overzelous pen it seems it has a dream of being
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| the ink of a mans soul
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| the greatest pen this hand will ever hold
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| sometimes in the journy though
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| the mind to pen seem so close
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| the translation is hard to hold
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| and we ain’t even got to the studio
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| and now she waits to destract my motivated stroke
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| come back to bed
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| is the song she sings
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| she hates when i wake her from a lucid dream
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| but she don’t know what the song can mean
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| why can’t it wait
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| wait till the suns a little bit higher
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| she still burns from last nights fire
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| and she wants me to dous the flame
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| but wait if i did the song wouldn’t be the same
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| i’m sorry |