I paint a thousand pictures here on the inside of my skull,
Sometimes I'll crack it open, though my instruments are dull,
I focus in, then out of view, when the blows land on my chin,
A wild river's seeping slowly through the cracks in my skin.
I've got a hunger for sweet admiration, but can't exchange it for my occupation as the fallen cleric, chief of sinners, poor of spirit.
Take all the mud and glory in,
The blood that swells my hand,
Shake it out with delirium tremors and guide my palsy pen,
Who's impressed enough to follow me?
Please, consider now the source,
Count my golden vanities in the fire of remorse.
I've made an art of clever demonstrations, but can't exchange it for my occupation as the fallen cleric, chief of sinners, poor of spirit.
I paint a thousand pictures here on the inside of my skull,
Come on, crack it open, kill me,
Burn the bridges, break the walls.
I've got a hunger for sweet validation, but can't exchange it for my old vocation as the fallen cleric, chief of sinners, poor of spirit.
