First ring I ever drew still hurts the last thing I ever drew Telling myself just one more year until the last shovel of dirt Spending forever doting on each circle of graphite Each fresh ring a hoop that marks my not passing on
Safe places are vaccuums, filling with sadness, without spark Plucked out of a patch of sun, I tried to refill you
Wrapped in burlap My first born dead
How many children do I have to bury before I am allowed to end Why doesn't the ghost speak, instead stare accusingTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
