Shrunken Heads

Wasted cigarettes hardly ash before

there's something else to burn

it's done, you're already moving on

and the drunkard seeks scape

through the faded tint of empty bottles

leave no room to discover

That it's always been in front of him,

but he's never recognized

that the more he runs, the more he's left behind

because horoscopes and shrunken heads

can't be without the numb

keep it burning

For every hooker, there's a nun

for every welcome, there's a shun

it makes no sense to search forever

when only so much can be done

nothing is fair when nothing's sufficient

continued mistakes to turn and neglect

And the moment dies, and everybody cries

for what could never be achieved

but the broken hearts appear to be relieved

And even if you're strictly sober

you never take the glance

your haste can't make tomorrow sooner

your faded will can't pave the way at all

kicking off what's nipping at your heels

through it could support your feet

And now, self-inflicted suffocation, poorly judged contemplation

what's beyond this boring town, and what beauty laid within

all those alcoholic routines, and all the faded friends and jobs?

they have made you who you are

you can't forget the roots from which you claim to be growing

Burning cigarettes hardly give that sweet tobacco taste

the time has come to recover

Keep it burning

self-inflicted suffocation, poorly judged contemplation

Keep it burning