Everyone’s sleepwalking through city square
It’s twelve fifty seven
And seventy families have bled black against Israel’s rockets

Come Sunday morning
The drunks in my hometown
Will be too hungover to recognise their own faces
While Palestinians across the world
Will have to sort through the bones of dead relatives

This country was built on colonial empathy
Freedom from suffering through self-absorbed apathy

We’re all sewn to our seats
Caring for nothing

Sometimes we're sad and we don't know why
We can pretend everything's fine but what's the use
We need understanding as much as painter needs his muse
But who can help when our souls are bitter?
No, in our blood there's no glitter, our veins are not neon
Our hearts are black, our minds are wasted
I guess we all know that feeling when you don’t want to be just
A shadow of yourself
Special state when you need to recover but you can’t really learn
How can you run, how can you change when you are paralyzed
Just another monster disguised
All you feel is empty and numb  and you just wanna feel something
Even if that is pain
So you pray for someone to break your bones to feel them healing
because depression is a endless feeling

I can shout it because I’m pitiful,
But I’ll whisper it because I'm weak.
It’s the only thing light enough to say.
And I’m sorry saying sorry
Won’t change a **** thing!

Death doesn’t care how much we cry.
Even if we swear to change,
To cork the *****,
Or
Come home on time,
Death will carry on as usual.
Without skipping a beating heart

In the stillest moment of the night,
When nothing more than the soft glow
of your cell phone falls across
the gray of your beard and the wrinkles on your face
I remember those nights
I wanted to crawl inside
your burning skin and harbor there
hidden from the world
deep inside you; cradled around my
ache and longing
holding my desire
for you,
as long as I can.