| Dying is the last line on the drawing
|
| Did you fill in all the holes
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| Are there shadows of undone
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| And colors of rage and no fun
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| How has the brush touched the canvas
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| How smooth has the years melted together
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| The frame may be worn and rusted
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| Still might tell if you got beaten or hugged
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| The first line that is drawn is birth
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| Shown or hidden behind layers
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| It will surely shine through
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| And show the real you
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| The last line is death
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| Sharpen the pencil and dip the brush
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| When the ink is dry
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| You’ve earned your last breath
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| Is this the last line
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| That you’re drawing to me
|
| Is this the last time
|
| That you’re talking to me
|
| Is this the last line
|
| That you’re drawing to me
|
| Is this the last time
|
| That you’re talking to me
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| Can you tell how you came to that conclusion
|
| Speechless, non-the less impressed
|
| Can you tell how you came to that conclusion
|
| Speechless, non-the less impressed
|
| Is this the last line
|
| That you’re drawing to me
|
| Is this the last time
|
| That you’re talking to me
|
| Is this the last line
|
| That you’re drawing to me
|
| Is this the last time
|
| That you’re talking to me
|
| Is this the last line
|
| That you’re drawing to me
|
| Is this the last time
|
| That you’re talking to me
|
| Is this the last line
|
| That you’re drawing to me
|
| Is this the last time
|
| That you’re talking to me |