Lyrics 813 Maryland St. - Hotel Books

813 Maryland St.

She put a bullet through a bible and thought it would empower her,
but she felt nothing and tha’ts all she needed to finally feel nothing.
She stopped by my house the next morning and said, «I'm sorry, but I still don’t feel like this life is worth living,
yet all you can do».
I looked at her with tears in my eyes and said, «Darling, I’m sorry, but I’m glad I’m not you».
She said, «At least I know this is all temporary, but the carpet grains will still hold
stains …
even when we die».
You won’t have to face them but they will remain.
She said she had enough baggage to rattle the cage of rage, worthless page,
after page.
To rearrange the strange game of pain, seeking further into a strain of remains.
Tags with names, she felt like the lone survivor of a civil war of inner peace
versus inner desire.
Hoping somehow, to change, the casualties were her hope and her sanity,
a damaging callamity of fragile ideals being washed away, when waging war
against a staging of poor ideologies that led to death.
But at least she felt something and at last t all meant something.
There’s no way to see beuty when it’s just the blind leading the blind.
There’s no way to see beauty when it’s just losing love to justify lies.
There’s no way to see beauty when it’s just hte blind leading the blind.
There’s no way to see beauty when we lose love just to justify our stupid lies.
She said, «I watched my house catch fire and I didn’t feel a single thing».
Well, darling, congratulations, I wish I had that sort of inner peace.
I’m digging into catacombs, built beneath this frame I call a body and
expectations diminish as I uncover there’s nothing underneath hiding.
She had taken what I once needed to feel I could be something and I spent so
long being bitter, but now I’m finally celebrating, thanking god for those
moments where my eyes met hers and she was caught in the life that felt like
one rapid blur.
The spur of the moment cure for her boredom and my lack of adventure.
Wewere caught somewhere betweena pack of menthols she kept on the nightstand
where she would sleep and a broken down truck that used to drive into our
dreams, but now sad as an eyesore metaphor for the home we created to nourish
our