You sing for me my friend,
Brave and confident,
And there is comfort between your breaths,
A naive sense to help.
But when the days beneath me,
Scream into my present,
I must always run the race on my own.
Your warmth is in my bed,
Your voice above the stairs,
And when the touching becomes regret,
Becomes my mercy chair.
Even when the sun is burning,
Saving graces,
I must always run the race on my own.
Oh the sinking and decent,
Of every sailing word.
And the destruction of all convention,
And all corrupted thought,
Dig their nails into my optimistic shell,
I must always run the race on my own.
I must always run the race on my own.
I must always run the race on my own.
