|
Sometimes when I wake at night |
|
I feel that nothing on earth could ever hurt me |
|
Sometimes when I'm on my mind |
|
I feel that nothing I say could ever deserve me |
|
I'm stood on the tip of my own tongue |
|
I'm caught in the space between the concept and the execution |
|
I'm stuck in the back of my own throats |
|
I'm lost in the void between the instinct and the institution |
|
It's more than vocabulary |
|
Takes more than a dictionary |
|
Sometimes when I wake at night |
|
I feel that nothing on earth could ever hurt me |
|
Sometimes when I'm on my mind |
|
I feel that nothing I say could ever deserve me |
|
I'm stood on the tip of my own tongue |
|
I'm caught in the space between the concept and the execution |
|
I'm stuck in the back of my own throats |
|
I'm lost in the void between the instinct and the institution |
|
It's more than vocabulary |
|
Takes more than a dictionary |
|
Sometimes when I wake at night |
|
I feel that nothing on earth could ever hurt me |
|
Sometimes when I'm on my mind |
|
I feel that nothing I say could ever deserve me |
|
Sometimes when I wake at night |
|
I feel that nothing on earth could ever hurt me |
|
Sometimes when I'm on my mind |
|
I feel that nothing I say could ever deserve me |
