I have to confess this I cannot blame anyone for my suffering.
There are no triggers that I am aware of, therefore I must be to blame.
I am to blame.

It torments me, the very thought of awareness, and the subsistence of my species demands that I attack.
So I attack myself or I attack the outside.
I attack myself or I attack the outside.
I've become attached to emotion, no matter the consequence and those close to me, who share with me, can too become victims.
I am a victim as you are a victim.
Our commonality exists in that we suffer.
Racked with guilt, feel the wretchedness.
Rejection now anxiety, helplessness now anger or apathy.
Feasting torment, create the wretchedness.
Repudiation a strengthening delusion and a solitary path but one that gives me power.
Racked with guilt. Racked with guilt. Racked with guilt. Racked with guilt.

I have to again confess that with this knowledge I have been blessed.
There are no short cuts through this walk of shame, only talking faces and self obsessed names.
I have to again confess that with this knowledge I have been blessed.
Martyrs suffer all the same. I will not suffer like who I became.

There are only valleys, more valleys.
The hills are all back allies.
Flattened by the shadows that hover over the brightness.
Life had its moments, its comforts.
What remains is coldness and hurt.
Flattened by the actions that make one confess.
Flattened by the actions that make one confess.

Dust angels, old dreams.
The skeleton of belief.
Morphed into a corpse.
That once walked on two feet.

Still these angels, these shadows, wont let us be.

There are only valleys, more valleys.
The hills are all back allies.
Flattened by the shadows that hover over the brightness.
Life had its moments, its comforts.
What remains is coldness and hurt.
Flattened by the actions that make one confess.
Flattened by the actions that make one confess.

Dust angels, old dreams.
The skeleton of belief.
Morphed into a corpse.
That once walked on two feet.
Dust angels, old dreams.
The skeleton of belief.
Morphed into a corpse.
That once walked on two feet.
Dust angels, old dreams.
The skeleton of belief.
Morphed into a corpse.
That once walked on two feet.
Still these angels, these shadows, wont let us be.

Still these angels, these shadows, wont let us be.