Todd Thibaud Sacred
we talk about social imperfections we talk about
wolves at every turn
we think about the comical direction i might've taken
if i'd never learned
there's no time for happy ever after there's no time
for walking in the surf
there are no words i could ever mumble that could
touch
the depths of what you're worth
and it's me who wants it all to be now to be somehow
perfect
me that wants it all to be right to be something
sacred
you write down your intimate perceptions you write
down your disenchanted prose
breathe deep the air of your existence anything to
understand the life you chose
'cause it's me who wants it all to be now to be
somehow perfect
me that wants it all to be right to be something
sacred, to be something sacred
and i don't understand the reason why; a cry for love
gets no reply
the refuse swirling at my feet, the fascination with
deceit
the politics of empty men, the confidence we all
pretend
the multitudes at every gate, the unexpected hand of
fate
and it's me who wants it all to be now to be somehow
perfect
me that wants it all to be right to be something
sacred
