sentiment lost in translation.
there's a glitch in transmission.
but i think
the sheets are soaked in whiskey, I still can't stop
somewhere between where we say and we do.
we knew.
bottle back.
quick
we've watched the lines form in our faces
and the
it crept to me like a cancer in my sleep
it
i found this outside you. the road to your room
and you're spitting bullets as the words trip off
of my
(instrumental)
and i don't want to say that i wasted my
put your hands all over me
let it burn, let it
poet i'm sick of your pretty lies.
and it was about
our histories, they hold no apologies
and how we suffer what
lost somewhere in the bottle and song i bet
on
and we're all dying from what we cant touch
and we've
and we've slept where before we wouldn't stand, and
we cant
» More on Planes Mistaken For