A Trunk Full Of Dead Bodies

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A Trunk Full Of Dead Bodies


It seems these wrists are made of concrete
Does this make sense
Or should i repeat myself again?
A little more clearly
All this time i have wasted
Making up a reality
You'd think i'd get it by now
You think it would sink in somehow
Just waiting for anything at all to come along
Reassuring the faults of what i've done
I don't like my smile
Seems that everything around me is growing fast
Accepting is the hardest part
Patches of purple and yellow and my watery eyes

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