Open those eyes.
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Wake from peace.
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Orders are some favorite color.
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Same old same old is their battle cry.
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Why don't we keep searching for a new flavor?
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Our hearts have become a routine.
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Worthy kings have broken backs for nothing.
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Unless we cherish all with pride,
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the lines on our face will turn into canyons of sorrow instead of hope.
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They didn't die from the cold without but they died from the cold within.
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And I just can't stop denying that our brothers are in miserable pain.
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Stop short.
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Lend a hand and break the chains of regularity that you lean so closely upon.
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Your little Suburbia is in ruins.
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Tear down all the assumptions you hold, for I guarantee they are false.
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Sometimes the best feeling may be the one that kills.
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-----------------
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Your Little Suburbia Is In Ruins
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| August Burns Red |
