| «I'm sorry»:
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| It’s easy to say when you’ve got arms to find solace in
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| And lips to get drunk on
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| I remain ink-stained, disdained, ingrained
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| Are you feeling entertained?
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| I used to wonder what the pain was like
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| When my father’s heart exploded
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| Common art sold it but this won’t settle for silence
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| Now I’m volatile with self-violence
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| Trust me
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| Even patience wouldn’t try this venerable eye-sense
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| Since I found a beat left dying on the street
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| And took her home to pen-stitch the bleeding rhythm
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| She’d been selling ism
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| And we shared stories of correlating detonated coronaries
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| It’s beyond scary
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| But fear is the little death and I’m no muad’dib
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| You colonized my Arrakis
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| Helpless melange addict
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| With the right tactic and the wrong practice
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| Faulty emotional stillsuit
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| Left me dehydrated and rapless
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| Let the desert have me
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| I didn’t know it was the last kiss
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| You never told me it was the last kiss
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| You never told me shit
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| So now you’re gone
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| I’ll play the solo solar soldier
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| That’s eternally ignited
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| So now where’s your coal
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| (Gone) to hell in an old soul
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| It cannot burn like this
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| Trial by nostalgia
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| Like it’s all love, all over, all just
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| I guess I’m all folding
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| Because God knows I can’t deal holding sole trust
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| Thought I was quicksilver but its gold rush
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| Beat my cold crush into the promised land
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| I took a last stand
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| Before that promise banned
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| I tried to show promise jazz but it wandered past my thumb
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| And I hitched a ride alone to strife’s home
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| A microphone, a pen, and bad company to keep
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| Some things seem to seep out your pores
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| Embedded too deep to be indebted to speak
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| I’ll be better next week
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| In the bed where you freak
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| I’m dead as text
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| Believe me it’s not the sex
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| No pity please
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| No patronizing subtlety suffering me
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| No laughing irony
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| Publicly comedy tragically badgering my process of not mastering loss yet
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| (This) game set (to) match (light)
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| At least give me enough cash to get back… right?
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| Airport sadness, indeed
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| Cause I train MC’s in ways of emitting verbal rays
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| But this shit’s got me busted
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| Like mass transience… or transcendence
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| We all gotta transcend
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| Gotta transcend
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| Gotta transcend
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| Better a brother or father?
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| At least you kept it in the family
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| And I shouldn’t have assumed
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| That, as moons rise, only astute eyes see
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| My mindscape’s tenements bathed in light
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| Project-laden fright
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| See, night is the time I place self-wrought wooden dowels
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| Between street signs so as to build thought-ladders
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| The rungs, my lungs, exhale into you
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| Admittedly codependent
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| What makes it worse are the love-locks I built in front of the gateway
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| With each day I add a level
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| But your skeleton key sees through it all with those three words
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| So why keep building?
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| If distance is the answer I can fake it
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| And call it ascension
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| A.K.A. |
| not giving attention to how I really feel
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| And I don’t even know what that rung is
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| My greatest regret was not making this ladder/letter for two
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| I am what I write, and I wrote this all about you
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| I’m all about you
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| I’m all about you
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| I’m all about… you |