Paragraph structured. Sentences aligned. Settle with the wine. Unsteady. Hands are so cold. Gripping on the man-made handgun. Shoot me with your man-made handgun. Your deadly with your black-painted handgun, and if only I could have one... I would damage your word. It was held so close. The letter is mine, and I'm far from yours. Gone, obscured. Not so torn. Not so torn. Not so torn. The shot broke skin inside the fox-hole - swore that it was home. The cut umbilical cord proves that I'm alone. Well enough to shake your hand here. Fear? Steer the car into the deer. Punch it to the eightees. Bottle full of beer. Windshield cracked. Shards of your rear-view smashed. I laugh at the victim of the crash. Staring down while I'm still up on the dash'. You paved the way for me, and all I had to say was please. Thank you. It's a clean-slate for me, and now I'm in the lead, holding onto an apology. (x4) But, it tastes bittersweet. Tastes like everything I hate. I spit it out and leave this place. Yeah, I need a break. Release me from reality's fate. And I'm gone. And I'm gone...

Shipwreck. Red tide. Goodbyes are now never-ending bedtimes. Sleeping on needles and pins, every day in year. Every year in my life spent cleaning a mess. What's that dead body waving for? Made the gore a comfy mattress back in '84, now the fear of pushing thirty doesn't matter anymore... Shipwreck. Red tide. Tape and staples over our lips, expression doesn't exist where grey and nothingness is. We save it under the skin, sit blank and cover a grin - closed eyes and wait for the Incubus. Victims of the suspect simply because the suspect was a victim not admitting it. Intimate sicknesses - wither with eachother. Sealing the edge of our fate. Papercuts from licking the tip, signing, delivering. Little things are bigger than you'd ever think, stealing your identity. What do you do, when the monster underneath your bed won't leave? (x2) Sit there. Blank stare. Barely above the water, breathing, choking. Surrounded by a thousand kids broken. Flooded from the same storm, face warm, out of it. Hoping for a rope-end to pull in every soul... Live with intimidation sipping on its gin. Feet up on the table, a cigarette in the tray bent out of shape. Too many halves. No wholes. Not enough hands to hold those together. We fill them up but then we're empty yet again. Best friends until the end. Meet and greet with the gun in his pocket. You're standing there in hostage. Begging for a wish? You're wishful thinking. We know that when you blink, you'll be handed to the darkness. Pinned up to the ceiling - dangling. And if only it was paper-thin... What do you do, When the monster underneath your bed won't leave? (x2) In that midnight hour. You're under me. I'm over you. You're under me, I'm over you. I'm over you. You're scaring me, you're scaring me. Just leave me be...

I know what you want of me, but you don't always get what you want so bad. I know that we'll slow-dance every now & then. Whisper in my ear, though I hate the sound of it. When our tongues lock, and the tone pans out: no seratonin when I'm in your soul's grip. Anxiety, fear, worry when I try to keep clear. All my eyes can see here? Blurry, Whipe them clean. It's a side of me that's held with glue. When I am weak and skeletal, it's gorgeous to myself as well. That pane of glass is my best friend and my worst enemy for the things it lets me do just to pleasure you. I'm dying to get even. A masochism that we deeply do agree with, agree with. All it is is smoke and broken glass. Glass. Glass, yeah. Oh, my darling, you've ruined me. Ruined me for the rest of my.. For the rest of my.. What do you call that thing? Am I still alive, or was it all a fling? Am I still alive? Was it all a fling? Am I still alive? If I'm still alive, then just let me die. Let's take it slow... I know what you want of me, but you don't always get what you want. Who am I kidding? I'd give to you in a minute. Done it once before and I'm sure I'd do it again and, it never matters if I'll be suited in denim. Rose in my shirt pocket. A crowd of people hurt by it. They heard silence in a church choir. It's the same old songs. Same old wrongs. Thought they felt so right but when he'd ache so softly on his bedspread, parked at a dead-end, next to the passenger he wished he never left in... (Hook) Why do I give in every time I think I avoided your voice? It is poison, over my shoulder toying the coin-flip. Heads or tails. What's it worth? Why does it feel so good whenever something hurts? Don't tell me, scream it. Let the secret be known to the rest if these freaks getting to see me wither slow. Whoa. In a zone I thought I'd never go at all. Double-cup that ounce of feeling 'cause I'm faded from the fall. Yeah. It's everything I see in my own self that they don't. So, I sleep upon this road well. Not really. A bag full of... Ah, nothing else. Doesn't help, but I'm loving what it does, for real. (Hook)