Echoes

[Intro]
Getting older
Getting older
And more subdued...

[Verse One]
The days never cease to erase me
Paint the scars
And blue oceans erode
Bite down with teeth like acorns in the mud
But tell is known around my time I had my childhood been whittled down
To thirty eight days of which I can still recall
Lost fist fights and love notes
Spread eagle across a bed of trash
I still can't grow the moustache
Can't remember to pay my parking tickets (shit)
My shirt is often dirty and it see me through these nights
I eat the air like my final will my eagle says that I am the blueprint of resilience
I still confess to elementary love
(To elementary love)
I still confess to elementary love
Crumble like sheets of failed plans grab a scotch and take it like the antidote
(It is the antidote)
(It is the antidote)
(It is the antidote)
I couldn't tell you how long I've waited but it hasn't been long enough
My bones are moist and full of marrow
These veins are excited
One day you'll test my patience and I won't be ready
You would rather I blink my eyes first before I ask for what's coming
Simply I don't trust the times of peace
My heart races
The ghost of our finest dead and a portal of stinking whore that lurks behind the corner
In this cold box of self-inflicted phsycadelium my active grip would break her diving in to the blood of stars
The ceiling is mad against my hands I am sprawled out to catch and swallow my fate
And clothes I should have donated
But tomorrow holds anti-nostalgia
The sands melt to me
The sands melt to me
As countless women slip through these fingers
Drying fingers
Chapped lips
My love is what's beyond fucking these flesh mirrors
And hate is all the afterword of a brick wall tantrum
And all these intensities are a lonely mobius on top of each other like old sex partners
Yo I could spend my days counting back to one
Feeling infinity inside of me
Growing like a nose
(Growing like a nose)
(Growing like a nose)
And my testicles forever dropping like atom bombs in space
I'm so sick of my skin it feels as if my soon-to-be dust has my third eyes in chains
That's the real hell, it's a personal closet six feet under in your Sunday best kept from the worms who have no dinner
And trees who's roots are as dry as you
But before I feed the gardens I always neglected I would like to feel the walls of my brain
Just to see where the echoes come from
Because all this time I thought I wasn't alone
(All this time I thought I wasn't alone)