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segunda-feira, 24 de novembro de 2008

what i am made of.

If what you see here
is almost and always
the same

Everything is pain
and everywhere you look
you'll find something
about dead
about sons
about sun burning people
about songs i can't sing
'cause i'm going
i'm always going away from here...

What could you say
when everything here is pain
what could you do
if hurt is my new name
if blood is what it says
all the time
all the meaning
all it hides.

What could you?
If it is always so hard to see
if what i'm saying nobody can just live?

What could i say for you, so?
I think i'm doing this all the time
i think there's nothing new
only again
and again
the pain

sometimes more than yesterday
sometimes more heavy than ever
sometimes
i run
sometimes
i hide
sometimes
i'm scary of you
but all i really want is to hold you now
and make you see (read) trought these words
what i am made of.

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