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Inspired And The Sleep
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Sleeps Well on Knives
Grey swollen haze.
Snuffs out every hint of light.
Blankets on days.
Have always tend to blind my sight.
Never had the might.
To feel like I'm above the disease.
He sleeps well on knives.
A comfort in the need to bleed.
The dial ticks to the right.
And endlessly precedes to wind.
As day turns to night.
The mind has no belief in time.
It's composed of mist.
In how it seems to lack substance.
But how could love exist.
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In the barriers of increments.
So I'm giving up on giving up.
Always trying to cover a hole in my soul.
That's always been full.
So I'm giving up on giving up.
Always trying to cover a hole in my soul.
That's always been full.
So I'm giving up on giving up.
Always trying to cover a hole in my soul.
That's always been full.
So I'm giving up on giving up.
Always trying to cover a hole in my soul.
That's always been full.
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