Honest Joe

Throttlerod

Compositor: Não Disponível

Long stare at the clouds above
What is it that I am inocent of
Ground stinging my feet till death
I don't know how to close my eyes
Or rest my head

Through the walls, I hear them sing
I keep walking and pretend I don't feel anything
My ears ring and my tongue is burnt
I miss my home in Car-o-lina so bad it hurts

In my aching, hour far away
This storm is mine
Your candle's my only light
In this storm
Your bullet's all I own
And everyday I fire it away

Teeth are chipped, my hands are bruised
I dig a perfect hole inside and think of you
My chest aches and right here I sit
And hold your angel's hand
I'm coming home again

In my aching, hour far away
This storm is mine
Your candle's my only light
In this storm
Your bullet's all I own
And everyday I fire it away