Torn up pages: fickle, uncertain how time ticks.
Spoilt fruits: unwanted, abandoned, how life goes without you,
even when the rain hurts to walk on,
even when blood spills.
A pain buried oh so deep within
an illness without a cure rooted inside
your poor soul.
Oh, how it hurts.
Lost underneath this ruined world,
let’s bury ourselves down into hell.
Ah, a voice so fickle.
Ah, a soul so fruitless.
Broken records, crackling spluttering noises.
The time forgotten, tick-tocking snickering voices.
A sound lost in memories so old.
Melody oh so nostalgic.
A voice lost in time or so was told.
Oh how I wish I could go back
in time, but life’s so fickle.
Ah, a song so fruitless.
A sin buried oh so deep within
lies that form a skin surrounding
your grieving poor soul.
Oh, how it hurts.
Lost underneath the corpse of life,
let’s bury ourselves away from strife.
Ah, a voice so fickle, so full of woe.
Ah, how it hurts.
