Burnt out and dreamless

Alone and unkempt

Entombed in bloodless flesh

Contorted in masculine pose

Talking in circles

Worked to the bone

Sleepless in the aisles

Drifting through a sea of false memories

(Staring, haunting, wanting, drowning)

Until I clock out and realize I'm 30 years older

With no forward motion, decay marks the passage of time

And so it seems that this is all there is

Lost faces, stolen moments

But maybe, I deserve this

Maybe I deserve this

Maybе I'm nothing but the weight of my work

If I dig a little deepеr

I might just be able to turn this around

Why do I believe compliance will save me?

None of this is real

None of this is real

See me through my own eyes

See me through my own eyes