Your toes curl from the direction you choose to walk; the shoes are nothing but soles.
The ego whispers “I’m proud of you baby.”
Biting your lips; scraping for what you can find.
Rushing through life; still out of time.
Your toes curl from the direction you choose to walk; the shoes are nothing but soles.
The ego whispers “I’m proud of you baby.”
Is this to die for, is this loves’ war?
Is this what we die for; is this why I fought to the bones.
The ego whispers “I’m proud of you baby.”
You choose the colour of your bedsheet, but not the happiness you aim for.
The ego whispers “I’m proud of you baby.”
The volcano is empty, but a flower bed you carry.
Ashes to ashes; dust to bone and stone.
The ego whispers “I’m proud of you baby.”
You choose the colour of your bedsheet, but not the happiness you aim for.
The ego whispers “I’m proud of you baby.”
Is this to die for, is this loves’ war?
Is this what we die for; is this why I fought to the bones.
Is this to die for, is this loves’ war?
Is this what we die for; is this why I fought to the bones.
The ego whispers “I’m proud of you baby, dance with me maybe, till the end of the world.”
I’m proud of you baby, dance with me maybe, till the end of the world.
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