Don't deny that sick feeling in your stomach you can't run from it.
|
let it guide you into high view and move beyond the summit.
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from peeks to valleys speed through alleys if it's done quick,
|
you'll have time to find the caves where the days are never sunlit.
|
|
discover scriptures made by a society of blind men,
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who suggest the best direction's where you most likely will find them...
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dead set on checkmates embracing a chess set.
|
when bedspreads get wet they're left with the scent of death threats.
|
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in 7 seconds I'll become undone, I'm breaking through.
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if you're around by the time I reach number one I'm taking you.
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You're not the traveling type? Then hide your baggage better,
|
before you die a normal death and write the average letter
|
|
about your internal furnace,
|
and how life's a sexually transmitted disease that you contracted through her kiss.
|
when a boy writes off the world it's done with sloppy misspelled words if
|
a girl writes off the world it's done in cursive.
|
|
I'm searching for the cure
|
this is a sickness
|
can you hear me, love?
|
|
i kick dirt for what it's worth listening to the birds chirp
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the same cryptic speech that the breeze speaks and sea repeats.
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recognizing the cycles with every passing day.
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writing full demands in the sand with til crashing waves washed it away
|
|
i watch what i say now but I hate it.
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trying to make my mark, afraid of the dark nature of vague statements
|
that plague vacant parking lots where shopping carts go uncollected.
|
that sick feeling in my stomach start to leave my heart and soul infected.
|
|
I won't accept it. I do my best to reject patterns til it hurts,
|
every second making bad turns for the worse.
|
she's getting further away I can feel it in the way my bones ache.
|
The ocean sealed it's lips, now the waves won't break.
|
|
The secrets it won't say has got us trying to break codes in churches
|
and lately I've been hating its soul purpose.
|
when a boy writes off the world it's done with sloppy misspelled words if
|
a girl writes off the world it's done in cursive.
|
|
I'm searching for the cure
|
this is a sickness.
|
can you hear me, love?
|
|
Now I look for air pockets to pick, walk with a stick, start picking locks with it.
|
opening up heart-shaped lockets with little arguments.
|
the tawdry trinkets start to split and contradict
|
those who say one thing but think the opposite.
|
|
I bit the dust tongue kissing documents in a smoke stack.
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faith is harder to swallow than pride it, turning our throats black.
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I want my home back. i know that's not an available option.
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it's the way that I'm walking in between a cradle and coffin
|
|
that makes me pace myself. if half the battle is done right,
|
the other half won't take my health while jacking my shadow's sunlight
|
to crack it open and find the space between my breaths are desolate
|
life is just a lie with an "f" in it and death is definite.
|
|
But after I scratched the surface
|
I never saw the calm before the storm act so nervous.
|
when a boy writes off the world it's done with sloppy misspelled words if
|
a girl writes off the world it's done in cursive.
|
|
I'm searching for her
|
Can you hear me, love?
|
|
-----------------
|
The Cure
|
| Sage Francis |
