| Nothing makes my heart so wild as being
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| In possession of a potent night
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| Racing down the stairs in a nude descension
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| Shedding and discarding my hide
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| But the bold strokes crack so quickly
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| And it’s often that I wonder why
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| Dripping at the slow-motion rate of surrender
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| Hanging to my bones as they dry
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| How can I want something more than a new hell in which to fry
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| When I see in mostly black and white?
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| There’s a sinful sort of side of being
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| So contained, a bit like being lost
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| Stumbling through the background like a small town loner
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| Quietly a-whisperin' my thoughts into my cupped hands
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| Folded and monk-like, at least that’s what I’ve always said
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| How does writing letters from the lonely margins feel
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| When there is no hair on my head?
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| Is the solitude I seek a trap where I’ve been blindly led?
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| Tell me, where then do I go instead?
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| When atonement comes in distant waves
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| I might wait until the next to break
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| Choking through forgiveness at a sunfly prompter
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| Staring through the back of my face
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| Its a vulgar, hidden part of being tethered to the world right now;
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| Spending all my dollars to remain a member
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| Nothing in my eyes but a scowl
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| Do I bother to define myself beyond what they allow?
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| Have I already forgotten how? |