A parasite that lost its appetite with what he calls his own being yours to clean for.
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Walk with a weapon and fight just to see what draws the line between the now and yesterday.
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Scenes from the past being premonitions all to real.
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We dwell like antique paintings older every day,
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until a thief steals you from the wall in the shadows of creative eclipses.
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I've noticed your handwriting improve over the years,
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though someimtes i still smell shit in the ink.
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I can't clean this stain of a little boy, and sadly i am trapped in here for good.
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Locked my door and read these cryptic pieces a hundred-thousand times more.
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For every sundown taht crutches the awake,
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simmering the need of peave and lightly seasoning our bodies back to bed.
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Aimless is the mind on porcelain piloows.
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And we dwell like antique paintings, older every day.
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-----------------
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Until Your Heart Stops
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Cave-In |