Brian M.

Tradurre 11 anni fa

Perfectionism Riddled with a darkly light Snap neck info of the birds flight Crumpled up paper, from the trees we kill Backseat drivers of a defined thrill We are people, a circle of love A bottomed out bagpipe, with lungs like a dove He is aware, of a heartbeat gone sane He's alone, but connected to your brain Opened eyes of wind farmed flies Hell is a place in the mind. He's scared of the nest The only real test That my Ego has caught so far He's unbalanced And valiant As the fog lifts it's grip Cause now is the separation Of a comfortable nation My ears have been unclogged for days It's a super slam forbidden knowledge Of the Wall Street closed hedges I am no one and no where today