It's 7 in the morning and the steam blows like a kettle, marks the scenery.
The sun is barely pushing in through the windows, everything seems slow, there's a glow
There's still a glow in those dark eyes, but no more hope for long lost lives.
When all the dreams are running dry, only the prayers are rising high.
Our lives have fallen, our lives...forgotten.
To find the comfort in the smallest things that others take for granted, is it safe to say that's how it's supposed to be?
What seems as no apparent reason holds a pain so fierce, your mind can't grasp, it's beautiful.
Breath. Beautiful, it's beautiful in a way so dark...
From November to December, into summer, it stops then starts again.
All the days flow, all the weeks pass, it's just burden...they carry on their backs.
It's easy as s**t to classify how people live, the way they die.
But when it came down to decide, who was it? Who was it?
And it was me on that bridge that day, standing up at the weather...
I screamed my lungs out, asking for a way for all my days to get better.
We are the working class heroes, son, we are despised and forgotten.
We help society build its path, then fall behind as it prospers.
Don't forget who you are, I won't forget who I...so don't forget who you are, I won't forget who I...
She cups the glass in her hand as it warms at the feel of her skin and blood pours timelessly through her veins while forcing nights to
blend into days.
