Echoes - Intellectual

[Intro]

Getting older

And more subdued...

[Verse One]

The days never cease to erase me

Paint the scars

And blue oceans erode

Bite down with teeth like acorns in the mud

But tell is known around my time I had my childhood been whittled down

To thirty eight days of which I can still recall

Lost fist fights and love notes

Spread eagle across a bed of trash

I still can't grow the moustache

Can't remember to pay my parking tickets (shit)

My shirt is often dirty and it see me through these nights

I eat the air like my final will my eagle says that I am the blueprint of resilience

I still confess to elementary love

(To elementary love)

I still confess to elementary love

Crumble like sheets of failed plans grab a scotch and take it like the antidote

(It is the antidote)

I couldn't tell you how long I've waited but it hasn't been long enough

My bones are moist and full of marrow

These veins are excited

One day you'll test my patience and I won't be ready

You would rather I blink my eyes first before I ask for what's coming

Simply I don't trust the times of peace

My heart races

The ghost of our finest dead and a portal of stinking whore that lurks behind the corner

In this cold box of self-inflicted phsycadelium my active grip would break her diving in to the blood of stars

The ceiling is mad against my hands I am sprawled out to catch and swallow my fate

And clothes I should have donated

But tomorrow holds anti-nostalgia

The sands melt to me

As countless women slip through these fingers

Drying fingers

Chapped lips

My love is what's beyond fucking these flesh mirrors

And hate is all the afterword of a brick wall tantrum

And all these intensities are a lonely mobius on top of each other like old sex partners

Yo I could spend my days counting back to one

Feeling infinity inside of me

Growing like a nose

(Growing like a nose)

And my testicles forever dropping like atom bombs in space

I'm so sick of my skin it feels as if my soon-to-be dust has my third eyes in chains

That's the real hell, it's a personal closet six feet under in your Sunday best kept from the worms who have no dinner

And trees who's roots are as dry as you

But before I feed the gardens I always neglected I would like to feel the walls of my brain

Just to see where the echoes come from

Because all this time I thought I wasn't alone

(All this time I thought I wasn't alone)