| Death’s a sad bone; |
| bruised, you’d say
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| And yet she waits for me, year after year
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| To so delicately undo an old wound
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| To empty my breath from its bad prison
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| The phone off the hook
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| And the love, whatever it was, an infection
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| Like a canary in a mine
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| If I start singing death I hope you’re carrying a 9
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| 8 years deep said I’d marry her in 9
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| Kings Queen blowing cloud rings staring at the sky
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| Sub-Zero temperatures still tearing out my spine
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| Stars above us hover in a paramount design
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| This is cinema, my piss and vinegar makes living difficult
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| We kiss the stitches shut until it parallels the mind yeah
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| Constellations look like pointillism poignant pen places poison in em
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| Dropping gems like an oyster center
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| Got a koi fish in him swimming where the noise is hidden
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| Now I can’t avoid the venom, love-torn from the Joy Division
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| Increase the dosage til peaks that I reach are closer
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| And heavens still seem below us this medicine eats its own
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| My memories each alone, vermillion dreams recurring
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| I’m sketching it with a rose, you left it beneath my bones yeah
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| My speech is blurring it’s reoccurring I need to learn
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| To play my part, We’re made of carbon that means if it breathes it burns
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| Seasons turn to frost-bitten August went into freezing first
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| Beast of burden walks in a tarpit until he sinks in dirt, awkward
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| I’m dancing with two left feet to a eulogy
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| One day I hope my passion turns my ashes into jewelry
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| Ruining all I touch, the blood-covered the jubilee
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| Maneuvered through the cruelty, beautiful’s what you grew to be
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| Death is there, but she said the world’s gonna die
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| You know the world, the Earth, it’s gonna be over
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| But I said well I never lied to you
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| Death isn’t a question I’m taking it like a lesson
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| I etched into in my skeleton in case I forget the message
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| A vestige of bad intentions, No Heaven won’t make it better
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| Those devils don’t take a breather, they stay and assess wreckage
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| With that Hara-Kiri nearing I’m peering across the ocean
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| My periodic devotions grow teary-eyed from the poems
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| So weary I’ve been unfocused I’m hearing cries from my close ones
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| A myriad of emotions I’m mirror-like in my opus
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| Let the breath get in I’m present more precious than any gem is
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| Sentimental mental’s heavy no respite from leaded headaches
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| Here they come, nobody hears me I’m clear you see through the charades
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| Never let go of the echoes but savor the time I’m blessed with
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| Even then I have nothing against life
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| I know well the grass blades you mention
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| The furniture you have placed under the sun
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| But suicides have a special language
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| Like carpenters they want to know which tools
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| They never ask why build
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| That, all by itself, becomes a passion |