|
aint no color paint gonna cover the stains |
|
the pictures on the wall will all remain |
|
and even though he's home now, sound and safe |
|
surrounded by the faces that he places faith |
|
the images visit from the past he witnessed |
|
cant stay away from the memory, |
|
sticks with each detail, embeded in stone |
|
like he chisels those convictions into his bones |
|
the progress stops and pauses, |
|
spits and sputters like the basment faucet |
|
and its obvious hes lost in his regrets, |
|
you can smell it on his breath |
|
aint no color paint gonna cover the stains |
|
but now the alcohol is gonna mother the pain |
|
tuck it away, no complaints, |
|
just layin on his back on his backyard, under the rain |
|
take tomorrow, but doesnt know how though |
|
for ever swallow, theres another to follow |
|
he weaves his way throughout the story |
|
looking for a new missing piece or a door key |
|
spirits used to be for celebration, |
|
but now they just take him away from the hell thats waitin |
|
re-up until its three sheets up, |
|
and pick a place for the skeletons to meet up |
|
aint no color paint gonna cover the stains |
|
but if the oxygen escapes, it'll smother the flames |
|
no introduction, doesnt speak his own name |
|
gonna beat them demons at they own game |
|
the sunset rides to the end slopes |
|
same song echoing outside of the window |
|
you cant grow if the skin dont fit you |
|
sometimes you gotta get low just to get through |
|
no inspiration left to do your best when |
|
no one hates you more than your reflection |
|
suffer the shame until it stuffs the drain |
|
he's got two hands and a bucket of paint |
