cloudscollide
07/15/05, 08:10 AM
hi. i'm chris. i write some lyrics for my metalcore-ish/punk band. tell me what you think.
The Alternate: The Backup: The Make-Shift: The Burning Advertisement
Slowly, tissue is chipped away. Bit’s at a time severed from the source.
The center of the establishment…the system which runs life, through your veins.
This business will fall like the blood dripping from your skin, because sometimes
it’s better off being second place. Settle as the alternate…and move on without injury, without blood loss.
It’s when they’ve run out of product, they turn to you.
It’s never that easy. Time has passed by, the flesh is counted, the sum increasing.
There’s more of you on the floor then there is satisfaction in the hands of public.
Pushed it all too far, the best is way too far. Tear down the paint, or it’ll burn down itself.
The best is out of reach for you, and skin and blood are far too scarce. The blade’s lost count, but it’s not the only one keeping track.
This is Death of A Thousand Cuts
It’s never that easy, but it’s really so simple. You’ve vanished from the latter’s. Disappeared from charts from dreams too good to be true. Picture a million burning billboards on the side of the highway. It’s much too difficult for you.
And you’re on your very last cut.
The Alternate: The Backup: The Make-Shift: The Burning Advertisement
Slowly, tissue is chipped away. Bit’s at a time severed from the source.
The center of the establishment…the system which runs life, through your veins.
This business will fall like the blood dripping from your skin, because sometimes
it’s better off being second place. Settle as the alternate…and move on without injury, without blood loss.
It’s when they’ve run out of product, they turn to you.
It’s never that easy. Time has passed by, the flesh is counted, the sum increasing.
There’s more of you on the floor then there is satisfaction in the hands of public.
Pushed it all too far, the best is way too far. Tear down the paint, or it’ll burn down itself.
The best is out of reach for you, and skin and blood are far too scarce. The blade’s lost count, but it’s not the only one keeping track.
This is Death of A Thousand Cuts
It’s never that easy, but it’s really so simple. You’ve vanished from the latter’s. Disappeared from charts from dreams too good to be true. Picture a million burning billboards on the side of the highway. It’s much too difficult for you.
And you’re on your very last cut.