The court stands nigh sixty short.
Or maybe they need a declaration
But I'm all washed out at sea,
And these lies and these walls wrap my words in their inexperience
But the bruises paint a picture, or so it seems.
Your puritanical conceptions are murder
And for every Heart that breaks,
Where is your world?
Every piece of broken skin
Every scar that forms, and river on the floor
We twist away.
And I gargle corruption,
But my price is no weaknesses.
Lusting after virtual death
Close to lying for money
But you're a whore to me,
And I just can't stop.
The system will murder you
Just a mote of dust.