My hold on myself is always slipping away
These hands could play with matches, they could take the pain
These city lights, if only they knew what I do
The town would fall in darkness,
The people would blame you
Why, just why, does it seem I will be miserable always?
I'm told sometimes we need to believe in what we can't see
My hold on myself is always slipping away
These hands, they can build houses,
These hands could paint a scenery,
But they could never protect an infant
An infant
I can only hope they'll bury me in the deep blue sea
Since you constantly claim you'll dance on my grave
This isn't a science or an art anymore
This is war