she whispered it to me
and i woke up immediately.
i knew what i'd heard
and i'd practiced it remedially.
she had a hold instantaneously
and i knew i couldn't break it.
there was no doubt left
and i knew i couldn't shake it.
i held her that night
and i didn't wanna let when the sun arose;
i knew i had to eventually
and i'd have had to know
that i couldn't let it go.

completely chaotic in its beauty
and completed only by its sanity
there's got to be a reason we're looking for something here.

we're drawing our own portraits
and painting over our mistakes
with everything we've practiced at any easel.

as it starts back at the last tempo
we contemplate the time signature
and whether or not the time's showing anything at all.

there's too much going on now
and we're getting it all mixed up
with something we're all trying to feel in one form or another.

as we come back down
we see the sun glaring off the window pane
and realize this is where it's meant to have shone; upon our lives.

the devil told me his story
he told it quite well
the devil told me his story
and what it's like in hell
the devil told me his story
and how it's always swell
the devil told me his story
and i found we're all just shells,
waiting to be emptied.

she couldn't **** him when he asked her to
so she asked her daddy if he would.
she couldn't tell him, ever, the truth,
but she knew her daddy could.
she'd seen the way he'd looked at her,
and knew her daddy saw his love.
she knew he would be dead soon,
cuz her daddy took off the gloves.
she watched him bleeding in the street,
as her daddy beat his head in.
and she knew there would be a good reason
why her daddy had to **** him.

wandering through my head
you'd slid the idea in again.
i'd let you fill in that space
and taken time figuring out
where it was you made it through.

there's nothing i pointed out
as you poignantly accepted
the deception and lingering
that would come afterwards
when you did what you'd done.

now that it was called
what we'd called it that night
there's nothing more for me to say
i've never written what was right,
and you have no say in this.

you'd based this off a time
when you had the life
that you'd always imagined
but never let really happen
any breaking of what it was
and you know it's all because
of the way you'd carried yourself,
acting as if you'd never needed help
just being.
never living what you were meant to live as; the fates have been quite angered.

dreaded hang overs and handouts
made to believe in something else
for the sake of belief in anything
and yet there's nothing here to think;
there's been plenty done in the head,
and it's tiring itself out in here,
so it's got to find a way to get out.

the thing is we don't get out alive
and we're all bound here
in one form or another; we're stuck
as we're sticking ourselves,
poking and prodding for life
that we're all aware is here.

yet, there's this unyielding need
to feel something at one point
as well as at some other,
but nobody's pointed it out to anyone
and we're all blindly aiming ourselves
to destinies we're uncertain of;
but we're all out here living before we start dying.