| In the attics and crawlspaces of my mind, there are stowaways and quiet
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| passengers.
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| They’ve been there since I was a child, whispering softly amongst themselves.
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| I wear this crown of hate.
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| Feel the blood run down my face.
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| I know all your pain.
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| Waiting on unforeseeable events.
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| Puppeteering from beneath my skin.
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| Suffocating invisible boxes.
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| Pools of blood up to their knees.
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| I wear this crown of hate.
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| Feel the blood run down my face.
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| I know all your pain.
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| My crown weighs me to the ground while the medicine keeps me calm,
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| keeps me calm.
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| Descendant of sickness, descendant of hate.
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| Descendant of sickness, descendant of hate.
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| The world caved in on my friend today.
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| And with his shaking hands he closed his eyes and he walked away.
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| Without a reason or goodbye.
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| The foundation quakes.
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| The rafters shake.
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| Climbing slow into the sky.
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| He removed his crown before he drifted down and fell ever so asleep.
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| She found his shell in the morning.
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| Her heart leap sad and fast.
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| He is here yet he has gone away, in numb silence from the past. |