A flood of useless ideas leave, a book of pages as good as blank.
A river run dry, spread too thin.
Abused and polluted. Palm pressed on my forehead.
The lords calling, I won't call my own. Believe in some outdated myth, or admit my life was meant for dirt.
Once fertile soil, standing knee deep in fucking ash. Nothing but a lost potential for growth.
Every inch has been burnt out.
Palm pressed on the good book, but I'm still speaking in half truths.
There are questions and I cant find the answers.
And I got demons I can't leave in some confession booth.
A flood of useless ideals leave my mind, as good as blank.
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