| Mr. apathy, please try to realize
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| This is not the life your former self wished for you
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| To reside. |
| always organization,
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| Always a set sequence
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| But no guarantee you’ve began to find yourself
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| Or even begin to live,
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| Rich pocket, poor soul, this is what we’re aiming for.
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| A lifetime of shadows projected on a wall to see
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| Does not give you the slightest taste of truth
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| Nor true reality. |
| fixed obligations and set paths
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| Are stepping blocks not concrete walls.
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| But if it gives me release and energy
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| Then i’d gladly follow along
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| Cause now the only things we’ll hold onto
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| Will be sad excuses for memories.
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| If only emotion could be captured in time.
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| Arms crossed we search for something more
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| We aim, eyes closed, but there is no purpose
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| Screams of «hold on, hold on, hold on»
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| Are muffled out.
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| That second hand must’ve been on too loud
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| Because these hours fly by like minutes now
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| Even the blood coming up from my screaming lungs
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| Succumbs to evaporation
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| But i can still breathe in.
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| And i think this hearts beating.
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| There must be a reason. |