Paroles the boogieman screams like a girl de Bleubird

Textes et Paroles de the boogieman screams like a girl

I don't know who my god is, but when he speaks to me I listen clearly,
call it voices in my head or heroes in my headphones today.
You ever hear your name spoken? A song that doesn't exist.
Yesterday I was by myself surrounded by people all day.
They'll cry but the candle's burning,
I've got nothing else to live for... yet.
Families crumble under the rumble of relapsed lifestyles;
wild and untamed, the broken unframed, dame five ten.
With burned edges I am
-soon to be faded remember your buried treasure -
fire made me run from the only place that I felt comfortable.
And not what would do me good, but the sour taste will have to do for now;
I walk a thin line between walking a thin line and pretending to.
I'll stop writing in other people's voices when the choice resists itself.
This year it's coming, I can feel it, but it's not seen there when I look for it yet.
Bury my nose in a book for a minute and look up only when I want the sun to burn my eyes.
Tears put out the flames for the names I've forgotten;
I've made an honest effort to avoid comfort and not leave anyone behind.
But feet get stuck in the sand when shoes land in convenient corners;
I run, towards the sun or away, whatever direction I have to get get home today.
Feet keep scratching chainlink fences. Yesterday means nothing after tonight;
riding by windowlight next to sleeping strangers helplessly arranged.
Part of my characteristics and pheramones if you will from a long day;
riding together aimless to a common destination with different purpose.
I left my heart in a guest-room closet in Portland
one more time just to spite what I might have lost in Aspen.
I wanna know where and when the magic happens, and does it stay with you?
I enjoy listening to other people's opinions then brushing them off with a childish smile.
Sometimes you get what you want and other times you get nothing;
is something really better than torturing yourself nightly?
Lifeless, cigarettes burn and the people die slow.
Wearing a dustmask in a dustcloud of nuclear fallout;
like bringing a peace pipe to a gunshow, or a sword with a crucifix for a handle.
Let Jesus do all the killing while the blade gleams for fallen glory.
I've seen the same movies over and over again with different titles.
I can't explain the moment if you weren't there to see it;
happy with a construction job is like dying without traveling.
There's people who think in different languages and express global compassion outwardly.
Delirium is sugar in my coffee; wake up, I never went to sleep.
If I give you change, would it ever occur?
I blind myself with constant questions;
my pen cuts the paper in graves of dents in pages thick.
My words are sick of me watching,
so I close my eyes and place my trust in glides of ballpoint fate;
hopefully it will demonstrate what I was thinking when I was seeming awake.
There's an old saying it goes, "nobody knows what the fuck is going to happen next."
"Why don't we take the chances
of gravity holding us down to advance
on the cycle or circle of life
that we're living and constantly giving up?"
jumped the boogieman.

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