| Torn from the inside, giving all you have,
|
| You’ll run a thousand miles before you take on helping hands,
|
| They take it all for granted, a never-ending feed,
|
| But when the trough is empty, see the failure of the breed
|
| Now run to me, and show me grace,
|
| When within my heart, beats a losing race,
|
| With my chance for the light, to choose my fate,
|
| Disease of the mind, your mediocre trait
|
| Take with ease, from those with hearts of gold,
|
| Their eyes a window, straight into the soul,
|
| What you take for granted, can be taken back,
|
| But you force their hand with lies and vicious tact
|
| Take, for all it’s worth inside,
|
| Leave nothing but the empty shell,
|
| This life sustains not a given few,
|
| It gives up on the good it knew
|
| A fragile state of mind reserved,
|
| For villains posing with the good,
|
| But hesitate, distrust, disassemble all that’s right,
|
| Come seek the chalice of the light
|
| Now run to me, and show me grace,
|
| When within my heart, beats a losing race,
|
| With my chance for light, to choose my fate,
|
| Disease of the mind, your mediocre trait
|
| Inside, your fragile mind, make a mess of what is right,
|
| What gets left behind,
|
| Now feel the shame, for treachery so blunt,
|
| Placed with force upon the brethren that you loved
|
| Now run to me, and show me grace,
|
| When within my heart, beats a losing race,
|
| With my chance for light, to choose my fate,
|
| Disease of the mind, your mediocre trait
|
| Take, for all it’s worth inside,
|
| Leave nothing but the empty shell,
|
| This life sustains not a given few,
|
| It gives up on the good it knew
|
| Take, for all it’s worth inside,
|
| Leave nothing but the empty shell,
|
| This life sustains not a given few,
|
| It gives up on the good it knew |