Reality

Skin to skin, with liquid holding it all together
one layer to the next, this is the depth of your existence
It doesn’t make you feel like anything
Liquid doesn’t feel, just flows
flows to the depths of past, and by passes your present
creating your future before you have even caught on to what you are
We have been grown from the ground, with a depth of two inches
only to return when timing isn’t ours;
Along the way, we claimed it to be our own
a constant presumption that with or with out our dirt
change never happens

Wave those flags of mercy, raise that dollar, speak your own words
how humble can it even be done, only to sleep in forged peace, with the same dollar to be found in your pocket
scoff your own words

Immovable in a mental movie of the repeated action, the way things were
A constant presumption, this is how they still reside
to you, change never happens
Submerse for long enough, the past will catch up with your present, and your future won’t exist you’re only made of dirt, and this is the depth of existence

I call you Human

I like the way this one falls
Right off the corner of my lips
You’re contaminated with something no one else can see
Restlessness for this world you have painted for yourself
Ideas of something improved, but never adequate valor to make it happen
Humanistic is rather defined as going back to what we know
Your pelt is the epitome of humanistic routine

Layers

If my skin could melt off like the ash from your cigarette
I could really see what is going on
I could reach down deep inside of me and pull out what I can not see

Finger and chord, wish me well
If you ever go looking for a cure
deep in the valleys of Gods splender
I hope that you'll take me along

Id shed my grace for you, to see again
Id peel back the layer that I layed across your eyes
to feel a world unfelt
Id write you a song you already wrote for yourself

I breathe you in like I brush you off
I breathe you in like I brush you off