I’d pull of my fingers, but then who’d play you guitar
Watch as the dreams and blood, pour from the scars
And when I finally quit all this singing with one last note
When the monsters in my head finally rip out my throat
And when I die on this stage would that be good?
Hands still clutched around this neck of wood
Screams in an empty room, of filled up minds
Bounce off closed ears, wasting breath and time
When I go and all that's left is grooves in wax and tape
Will it matter in 100 years when they refuse to play?
Those thing can eat you alive too much to manage
That's the real brain ache man, that's real nerve damage
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