| Driving wooden stakes through black hearts
|
| The clock strikes midnight
|
| The dye has been cast
|
| And the sun sets once again
|
| Broken records spin love songs till dawn
|
| Press repeat on «Black Celebration»
|
| It’s the same old song and dance
|
| The needle scratches and the record skips
|
| Everything matters more to me
|
| I find the beauty in everything
|
| And I’m trying hard to let go
|
| Our scars are here to remind us that our past was real
|
| Everything is quickly fading
|
| And I don’t want to sit here waiting
|
| For life to pass me by
|
| I want to be acquainted with the night
|
| And find the solemn places where I can hide
|
| Screaming to myself so loud
|
| The white blisters in my throat, they hold me back
|
| Can you hear me screaming?
|
| Turning whispers into shouts
|
| And I write these songs hoping
|
| My words will help me through the night;
|
| Pens are daggers and daggers swords
|
| I’m using ink as blood and I’m not the only one
|
| And the record skips, and the records skips
|
| Standing here with this dagger in my hand
|
| The broken record skips and it tells me love is dead
|
| The sun has turned it’s back on me once again
|
| Broken mirrors shed no reflections
|
| Just imperfections
|
| These broken shards cut me up
|
| No one can see me;
|
| I find the beauty in everything
|
| And I want you to know that I hate growing up
|
| And watching people come and go
|
| I’m counting angels as they fall |