Low Places Detached
Rise and fall with the faults and the problems
Tame the beasts with addiction and pleas
Recognize the end and draw some conclusions
No gods, no masters, no hope, no peace
Seven days, its a weeks discomfort
Selling my soul for a fix of relief
I stay cursed with bad luck and misfortune
I am dead weight, a burden, a disease
As for fulfillment
I'm lacking the feeling
Though my heart beats drum rolls
I fear the well being
Grim, bleak nights
Polluted minds for this season
The end is coming
There's no healing these lesions
Things just will not click
I am always sick
