Don’t you ever get tired of being defensive,
on guard,
on the waiting call to strike back and move forward?
Don’t you ever feel restless for a minute of peace in the world,
in yourself?

Another empty whisky bottle lays at the end of that table
and still there’s no hope to be found.

You fight to hold on,
you fight to stay strong.

Finger on the gun,
you’re not going home today.

The fight’s not done,
the war ain’t won.

A man on a ledge, ready to jump.

I live constantly between reality and Illusion.
I don’t know where ends or begins the other.
What’s reality? Isn't illusion part of reality?
Or is reality part of illusion? But what’s illusion after all?

Between thin lines,
I see the shore of those broken ideas.
Along the springs of my heart,
I see flows against tides.

Where do I belong?
What do I seek?
It is me or does everything seem blurry?
I am a capital energy of this passivity place.

I am real. Am I?

I'm laying still,
but I'm getting ill.

making you apart,
gives me pain.

keeping you inside,
leaves me kind.

Laying still,
it got me ill.