| All of these fathers with their bald spots
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| Pull to the car line dropping kids off
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| The sons and daughters of their parents wounds
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| Parents of their own
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| It’d make some sense if some were made to me
|
| Sometimes I don’t see love in anything
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| And just when I surrender to my shadow
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| I snap out of it, and step into the light
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| I step back into the light
|
| Sometimes my mind feels like a valley
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| So I take it to the bar
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| Fill it up like an ocean
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| To drown my troubles in
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| Just to find out what good swimmers they are
|
| It’d make some sense if some were made to me
|
| Sometimes I don’t see love in anything
|
| And just when I surrender to my shadow
|
| I snap out of it, and step into the light
|
| I step back into the light
|
| When my dreams feel like a rusty rail
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| That I slapped on a coat of paint
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| As the layer cracked and chipped and failed
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| This wretched lie is all that remains
|
| It’d make some sense if some were made to me
|
| Sometimes I don’t see love in anything
|
| And just when I surrender to my shadow
|
| I snap out of it, and step into the light
|
| I step back into the light
|
| I step into the light
|
| I step back into the light |