all the saint’s in the cellars hiding beneath the art they made who’s to say a miracle can be measured visually I’m over my indifference cause it doesn’t fit art is hell and I’m not the poster boy for it
who’s to blame, I guess it’s me felt like shit when I got the call who’s to blame, I guess it’s me
ruth, I’m sorry, I gave up because I was weak you taught me better, that will endure all the things you lived for through me
fold me out on the bed I made I disrespected myself and from where I came double stitched my problems to every spot I lay my head till there was no room left for me in my bed
hiding out or hiding in Losing time or cutting risks
Spacing out or disconnecting or spitting shithead prose in the wind?
Ruth, I’m sorry, I gave up because I was weak you taught me better, that will endure all the things you lived for through me
shithead prose for a human dynamo how can something so ugly give the world some thing beautiful I pass my time with the simple wonders of day to day I’m not sure there is another way but I do try when I think of who’s given me the opportunities I passed on to find myself and where am I after years of searching still 12 years old at 24 I’m still 12 years old at 24 I’m still 12 years old at 24Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
