I hate myself for loving you and the weakness that it showed. You were just a painted face on a trip down to suicide road.
The truth that I am seeking is in your missing file.
Lay down the song you strum, And rest yourself 'neath the strength of strings No voice can hope to hum.
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans.
Disillusioned words like bullets bark as human gods aim for their mark.
You can't imagine parlor ballads drifting out of high-rise multi-towered buildings. That kind of music existed in a more timeless state of life.