It's your persistence that makes me sick.
It's not the sight of your kind.
And now I am so faint, caught up in just this way. I know that you can be more than this.
This wasn't what I wanted. You said I sewed that dream alive.
Climb farther into hate, is it this back seat making you itch?
Morals become something from a dream.
This isn't the way to blow off steam inside of your head.