1. |
Two Spirits
03:43
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How much smoke must be in the mirror for us to see any clearer? I'm tired of tiptoeing on eggshells all the time. On the fine line between who I am and how I'm supposed to be, I've long since woke up from this American Dream.
How can we make it anywhere when everything is here or there and everyone's too fucking scared to trace their own lines in the sand? They've firmly placed their feet in checks marked with deceit when all it's ever done is keep our wings clipped short and our futures bleak.
How much smoke must be in the mirror for us to see any clearer? I'm tired of tiptoeing on eggshells all the time. On the fine line between who I am and how I'm supposed to be, I've long since woke up from this American Dream.
What's the latest buzz word for me? Is it supposed to sting and how deeply? Yeah, I might be deemed a faggot for the truths I speak, but I don't see why a faggot's such a terrible thing to be. And if there was a cunt between my legs, what reason would I have to be ashamed? I’d be the prettiest girl this town couldn't claim; radiating confidence, poised with grace.
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2. |
Ride The Bitter Wind
01:37
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What words do the winds whisper at night when they're haunting the trees with their beggar's plight? No home of their own, no matter what they say. Just another empty promise washed away by the rain.
And as the excuses pile up on the ground, drowning in the endless shades of orange and brown, will the devil on your shoulder help to pull you out? Or just peel back the bark that hides whatever lurks beneath that charming disguise?
The cold cracks my fingers again.
Another reminder that our vices will always come back.
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3. |
Stairway II Heaven
02:11
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4. |
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I've seen better days to the point that going blind would be my saving grace. Alone and afraid of another week I don't want to face, I tremble and I shake until my head and my heart both forget how to ache. Another never-ending walk alone through the rain, another lonely shore that won't wash me away.
I don't think that I will ever be ready for this to end.
I thought I'd finally found a way to drag myself out from beneath this cloud where I continue to drown. But when the skies grow dark, and everything falls apart, I dive right back in, anchor tied to my wrist.
I don't think that I will ever be ready for this to end.
Stretch me out across the road. Tell me you'll be back, then leave me alone for the circle of vultures, the murder of crows; dark wings to match the words I can't believe that you spoke. An omen, that the prophecies of old hold on to our souls and make us face them alone.
I still linger, waiting to be used like an old perfume. Aching to fill your lungs with memories of me and you.
If you've moved on and found a better life, please just let me know so I can give up on mine.
I don't think that I will ever be ready for this to end.
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5. |
Fortune Teller
00:59
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I've heard tell this isn't the way that things were supposed to work out. And I've asked why you search for the truth when you're packed full of lies. Don't you dare say that I'm the one to fucking blame, because I'm not moving on until you realize you're the one who's wrong.
Someday, I hope it's true and you miss me half as much as I miss you. One day, maybe you'll see that you should have stuck with me. That I'm worth far more than just a bitter memory.
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6. |
Maiden Voyage
05:52
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I always thought that I'd die young. Pack up my things and ride into the setting sun. Feel the cool evening breeze tug at my hands and feet, trying to keep me from resting peacefully.
I kept chasing down my nightmares instead of following my dreams. I was too stubborn to see it's not all about me, and narcissism leads to self-defeat.
A picture perfect house, a picture perfect wife, were never among the things I thought that I could find. Too fucked up in the head, too preoccupied with death, but never quite ready to leave that lonely ledge.
Crash through the shades and hues of bleak and bitter blues. Land safely in your arms ready to start a life with you. But these wings of stone still crumbled in the sun soaked afternoons and fell to pieces long before I could leave behind my youth.
I kept chasing down my nightmares instead of following my dreams. I was too stubborn to see it's not all about me, and narcissism leads to self-defeat.
Why am I so afraid of what's to come? Why can't I give those last few shreds of self-doubt up? I don't want it to be all about me anymore. I don't want it to be about me.
But there will come a time when the fixations subside and when you squint in the morning light, you'll see the receding tide dragging all the would-have could-have-beens that have plagued your entire life back down to the bottom of the sea. Anchored by the sullen looks and desperate pleas. A rewritten ending never meant to be seen.
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7. |
White Lanterns (灯籠流し)
03:16
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I never knew how much I cared until those last few days you were in death's snare. Spring had finally come, the blossoms filled the air, as you wilted to nothing in a hospital chair.
Is there comfort in knowing your string's been frayed, or a burden to those who don't want you to fade? Will you be holding my hand from beyond the grave? Can you hear the violins from beneath the waves?
The droplets of rain collect on the glass searching for someone (or something) to send them back to the clouds in the sky, or the wind in the trees, or the stars in the night that wink down at me.
Is there comfort in knowing your string's been frayed, or a burden to those who don't want you to fade? Will you be holding my hand from beyond the grave? Can you hear the violins from beneath the waves? Because I realize now just how far I’ve strayed, and I realize it won't just how much pray. Because your thirteenth trump has already been played, and you've sung the final note in your last refrain.
Once we burn our bones to ash beneath the funeral pyre, are we judged and sentenced to endless death or sent back to earth with wings of fire? Are any ready when the robins tap to loosen their grip and wave goodbye to the past? To feel a final shudder as the rabbits pass atop our pillows of dirt and mountains of grass?
"There is death on the road. Death on all the roads.”
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8. |
Bad Moon Still Rising
09:07
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How many different masks and facades are hidden amongst all of these ends and odds? Buried at the bottom of bedside drawers where Y marks the spot and X's are flawed. Because your petty attempts at poetics and prose have been shameless and empty, not courageous or bold. So despite the lies the horse's mouth may have sold, the only thing you're entitled to is being alone.
You may be searching for someone who'll bend at the knee, in awe of your feigned might and majesty. Well it's a pipe dream; a love that will never be, born in the shadow of the guillotine. Because unrequited lust will never be reason enough to hang her for treason or burn her to dust. So take a look in the mirror and see what you've become; not a knight of the round, just an insatiable hound looking down on the world through a floor made of glass, where a woman's only worth are her tits and her ass. Another relic of the olden days dipped in brass. The sermon on the mount at your midnight mass.
How many different masks and facades are hidden amongst all of these ends and odds? Buried at the bottom of bedside drawers where women are marked as nothing but whores. Well, you should open your eyes because there's plenty of proof that you're miles and miles from the fucking truth. And though the bad moons may never stop rising, it's no excuse to abuse privileges that were handed to you.
Maybe you should be afraid of the crown you're bound
to abdicate to a world that has come to hate all the insufferable bullshit you've left in your wake. Because the wool that you pulled over all our eyes has been torn to pieces and left atop the wall as a sign that no royal order or king's decree will save you from the centuries suffered by your new liege.
All bad moons will wane.
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