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Starving Artiste

de The Bled

made a pact not to sleep through the end.
all of the dreamers are stuck in their beds.
fight off the attraction to always play dead I'm tortured by white noise in half hour sets.
ears ringing.
your mouth ran for miles but hasn't gone anywhere.
you're lost.
I heard the word on the street and it means nothing to me, so how do you like me now?
where's your passion?
the renaissance man is a thing of the past.
to you it's fashion.
dress up don't address what keeps us from resting.
the jackals circle for the feast I try to fight it off, but it's consuming me.
the rapture has only begun (while you sleep, they watch you breathing)
and you can bet it gets worse when the moon crashes into the sun
(while you dream, both ends are burning)
pray for one more chance
(they will steal air from your lungs)
in the back of the hearse, overturned as your insides prolapse
(wake before before it's too fucking late)
everyone has a skeleton key everyone rots in captivity everyone is sleeping off the heat you shut the blinds as they cauterize what lives inside.

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