FISSURE California

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Track Name: Junkie's Day Off
Minds, they rot away, cooking every single cell
Encased in heedless static
Eyes they sink into a dark oblivion
It repeats “Stop”.
Let the flashes of light drip out
and seep into every pore .
"This is just a test"
If you scrape your worthless carcass up, you might fail.
Track Name: Left-Footed
“Sorry” can only be said 20 times before it loses its meaning
I've only said it a thousand times, but who's counting?
I’ve inhaled razor blades
exhaled two cents
but who's counting?
All words are losing meaning
as does the taste in my mouth.
Track Name: Gary Busey for President of the Moon
Are you living for yourself
or are you trying your hardest to fulfill everyone’s ridiculous expectations?
Who gives two shits about how much your shit stinks?
Subliminal whispers up in the sky. The clouds are talking to you.
A lifeless drone programmed to obey.
Bend over and say "Yes sir, may I have another?"
Track Name: Untitled
The mask you wear is as fake as your smile.
Trampling over heads,
fuck whoever’s in front of you.
Anything to get ahead.
Stabbing people in the back isn’t the latest craze, but you sure act like it.
Your mask is cracked. You’re full of shit.
Track Name: Hey, Bro, You Like Attack Attack!?
Smiles have long gone.
Life has become this stale, used up film reel, ready to burn.
Burn. See if I care.
I can't stand the same painted faces
chipping away with time
save your lifeless stares for when you're dead.
The redundancy has drained every single drop of my essence.
You'll see a smile on my face when you see me fly or die.
Track Name: I Want All Our Songs to Be About Rims
The stone was cast
Broken through your front teeth
Blood stained face
Deviated jaw
There are no take backs in this life
I spy a fib on the broken scab
You cant take it back
Time moves slowly when you watch your shadow
running away from you
Track Name: I Used to Cut Myself to Dashboard Confessional
Sad to say that I've lost all faith in all decree
The lure was casted out
No money? Promises.
No worries. Promises .
The just hand of the law rules for the righteous
Strikes the wicked down
They say that justice is blind folded
No money? Pain? Live with it!
Better off dead
Better off the blood stain on the streets.
Better off dead
Justice: spelled out in dollar signs .
Here's two middle fingers.
Go fuck yourselves
Track Name: G.I.M.P.
Sharp pain in my stomach.
It’s been hurting for the last couple of weeks.
I can’t function properly, I can’t even stand.
Probe me, cut me, nuke my brain.
Too many numbers.
I can’t even count that high.
Fuck it, I'll deal with it.
Fuck it, I'll just walk it off.
You’d probably bleed me to death without even cutting me.