John Frusciante "Untitled #12" |
Blood on your head in catastrophes, icicles, No one's fed in cycles led by cycle dead Asked to shine the flag Loves his distant town Blue scents like apples bites And flows through our hands I said hi to a man who shot his sister Ran through the station And jumped in front of a train Should have looked Confused to meet you Well, that's what scissors do to a day So their smile paves the way And sand drifts with waves And clouds my head Cuz I'm a fortune fella's dead And I'm the tunes played by the goons Who ride to fare his wounds And stole the road the other way And sold tomorrow to yesterday And I know the feeling of pushing you Out of a building Tiny people pulsating Hit the sky But still the ground got up and whacked your face You expected to fly Wind up your misfortunes Sling 'em to a maitre d' Who wears dead butterflies on his face And is hoping to grow wings He really wants to tell you, hey Give your tears to today Grind yourself souvenirs into your stolen years Under your pocket Your hands getting numb In and urban blind slide. Do the avenues that seem to meet defeat you? Did you ever try to hug the sky behind your head? I walked forever, so it seemed, The screen suffered a mean, green ping. Dive headfirst into a hole in the water. Dragged side to side like a floating machine Dove dancing to a fable told in a sea of the disintegration Crawled to a celebration of dirt and leaves that tastes like wine Sucked from a hell that digs into the darkness Full of the fair that my head rides I slide your kind through a ladder Hanging on a star Stray close, so far away from the crime. A taped-line section of introspection. To rewind would be to recline. Hit the pounds underlying And gently ride on the sign Tell your problems to Zero He's got nothing to hide. Lyric from www.lyricmania.com |