|
Treating your days like a countdown.
|
|
Seconds pass by, waiting just to blow up,
|
|
and you get nothing done,
|
|
and this is what you want.
|
|
Lost touch and,
|
|
you turn your back and your some friend.
|
|
Sterile conversation,
|
|
learn to talk a good game.
|
|
Talk your way out,
|
|
it¡¯s a sure thing.
|
|
Testing the ends of what they¡¯ll put up with.
|
|
You got your chance to say what you wanted to.
|
|
But you never do,
|
|
stand up to the ones that keep you down,
|
|
now you can see right through it all.
|
|
Lost touch and,
|
|
tracing your steps you can¡¯t begin.
|
|
You can¡¯t start,
|
|
to say what your thinking and why not.
|
|
Talk your way out,
|
|
it¡¯s a sure thing.
|
|
Testing the ends of what they¡¯ll put up with.
|
|
Sticking it out ¡®til you can¡¯t get up.
|
|
How many times have you been pacified?
|
|
Accepting it when you¡¯re told,
|
|
there¡¯s no way,
|
|
making sure there never will.
|
|
Sticking it out ¡®til you can¡¯t get up.
|
|
How many times have you been pacified?
|
|
Accepting it when you¡¯re told,
|
|
there¡¯s no way,
|
|
making sure there never will.
|
|
Testing the ends of what they put up with.
|
|
|
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Transparent
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| quicksand |
