| There’s a kid within my head with a hatchet to my nerves
|
| Rebellion fills the songs he sings and, this much I deserve
|
| With every hack at synaptic gaps, there’s another to the hairline
|
| His freckled skin hides an angry side
|
| And even though he wants me dead I’d kill myself to keep him alive
|
| Flat out motionless a statue growing mold
|
| Around me rotates a world with no control
|
| The forest of my childhood now’s a filthy parking lot
|
| What isn’t asphalt is barely connected by deserted grown in stonewalls
|
| And therein lies a home
|
| He stumbles the streets alone
|
| Walking through the backyards circling the brain stem left unto his own
|
| Motionless a statue growing mold
|
| Around me rotates a world with no control
|
| I know, I’ll never make it by myself
|
| But he believes, he believes in one more swing
|
| Twenty-three atop the peak of nothing guaranteed
|
| Lets hope at thirty-five my friend inside is still up there and still alive
|
| I’ll pack my bags and run away
|
| I’ll run away, I’ll run away
|
| Out run the axe another day
|
| I’ll pack my bags and run away
|
| I’ll run away, I’ll run away |