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Artist: This Routine is Hell
It's not just you.
We've all got blackened hearts.
We've all got saddened parts.
And they don't know this play,
they don't feel the bass.
No happy endings, no soothing chords,
more like a fist on the piano.
And I'm happy that we're always offbeat.
"...the best minds of my generation, destroyed by madness ... burning for a connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night."
They sleep while they count the days.
They fear the moment when they part their ways.
Heads in cement, knees to the ground.
They loathe the beast they've crowned.
"They broke their backs lifting moloch to heaven."
We are the sea and all its sickness,
just as blue and equally still.
Like the other sore lips that are swaying with us,
"we're all still ill."
Brothers, sisters, reap what you sow.
God is dead, we're alone.
The city's howl never felt so loud, but we're never quite mute.
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