Beneath this thick perspiring skin there is a pulse that beats through my heart.
For the weak, for the weary, and for the heartless
And despite the anger that grows and hatred I so easily show.
There is a part of me that breathes life into the idea
that everyone has a piece of love that lives inside of them.
A figure starved, begging to be fed.
A figure too often left for dead.
We live our days with instinct as guidance.
A presiding aspect that stirs inside of us.
We put to shame the gift of our minds as our hearts decline.
Open your eyes to f*cking see, were the same from you to me.
A human being with a heart and passion, befriended by terror
the evil distraction.
It may not always show but from the chest it's said,
I live to believe that we are not yet dead.
Oh god please believe we are not yet dead.