Cheated out of long last days, a sickness retreats beneath trembling feet,
but mediocrity always seems to set things straight
I'll fail to make a face to meet the faces I'll meet,
I'll leap casually into careless defeat, retreat
Can't seem to make amends for every word unsaid or every second guess,
a slow death is beckoning, I think I'm losing my grip, but never giving in
One more time for the suffering to end, one more time for my old friends
but never again will I try to find whats left
What I have left are only sentiments, because I left them for dead
and most things are better left unsaid
Can't seem to make amends for every word unsaid or every second guess,
a slow death is beckoning, I think I'm losing my grip, but never giving in
giving up, or missing it, it seems I've shaped my own suffering
a slow life – that will never end, moving forward but going nowhere again
I always knew that I would never find the time
or even see what's left behind
and now I'm searching for the line
between true loss and lost time – lost my mind...
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