From My Cold Dead Hands

A dreamer's disease is inspiration that doesn't come free, that's always so far out of reach. where the cures that i breathe get the best of you but the worst of me. and i'm still quick to say that we'll give in to it all one day. but sometimes all we need is a little taste of faith. and someday i'll be that model man mapping out financial plans going over all the things i don't understand; like how to fall in line or keep commitments to the bills i have to pay on time. but for now i'll confine my time to following white dotted lines, always chasing after green and white exit signs that decorate the roads to make us feel like home. this is all i know, until i have to go and be that model man mapping out financial plans going over all the things i don't understand; like how to fall in line, or keep commitments to the bills i have to pay on time. for every effort spent, for every wasted breath, i'll become the result of every empty threat that's spit without question or hints of remorse. so let shallow waters steer our course to full low tides and deserted shores. overboard. and sinking fast now. this is my curse, this is my life day in, day out. to be victim of wretched dreams that will haunt me until i'm forever sleeping. but for now i'll drift .. i'm gone. we tried so hard to do what they said and showed. we were clones with their convictions to follow. but something changed and hate became the fuel and the flame responsible for our dreary nights and days we spent on our knees asking please, oh please someone answer me. can i be certain that significance has some meaning? the hands of time only push, they never pull. is this glass world half empty or half full? we may never know