Isaac Barrow - R.I.P. [tekst, tłumaczenie i interpretacja piosenki]

A thought at the tip of my tongue drives me up a ceiling and ricochets at the roof of my mouth. A thought sealed in an envelope and sent in the mail, expressed without volume tangible as as much as a shout. Though I have found much meaning to my words through these emotional dictionaries, rivers flow through my conscience with an ability to make my watery diction eerie. I see everything clearer without open eyes to flutter, but even when I dream it, I paint the picture without a failed sketch or an artistic stutter

We all have similar horoscopes, but different signs. Breathe the same air with different sinuses. Build with different appliances and study similar sciences. Despite this we are trapped behind the same phony wall of confidance. Bloody eye sockets allow me to see through transparency, allow me to cut through the grass and get to the roots of the seeds of innocence glaring at me. Ironic that my demeanor has folds even when I iron it again, I closed my clothes section long ago in exchange for the peace of mind I stroll back and forth and stamp feet down in

It takes me back to the time when I only needed a watch to tell time, And when a VCR was the only thing I wanted to rewind. It reminds me when I was on the verge in just a sex end, when navigation was defined by intercourse and not by direction

A thought at the tip of my tongue drives me up a ceiling and ricochets at the roof of my mouth. A thought sealed in an envelope and sent in the mail, expressed without volume tangible as as much as a shout. I run an interpersonal race but my complexion is dark before and after the finish line, and even when I shoot up into my brain, not even the secular, seasoned mind of a grand fiend can understand or relate to mine. Even in a room full of accomplices, the greatest accomplishment is recognizing that the greatest crime is faking it. Nirvana reference leads to spiritual freedom, hopefully one day my tasteless, empty, dry buds can taste it

Lines in my hand tell me how long I’ll live but don’t tell me how much of it will be spent alone. My height tells me numbers of my stature, but don’t calculate how much I’ve grown. I’m stuck behind a ghost in spirit, his ghost here I can feel him, whispering but echoing with great volume. Walking behind deadly steps while smoking cess, blowing out off course and even creeping under the doors of a classroom

I trail behind morbid foot trails and when the knife falls on my head I become responsive to the blade. It’s almost as if it takes a black plague to notice that poisonous waters are something in which we wade. Continuing on, I trail in wet, muddy waters with blue veins popping out of blackened skies. Walking towards my destination without any navigation, I make the bed of my future but don’t know whether it’s a lie or something in which I have yet to lie And when I think about all the issues the pain has brought about, I notice that all these issues leave every cover uncovered

Covers like a stone flipped over in a garden and left undiscovered. The pages filled with substance-infused words but they corrupt every last breath, and even the substance breathing out of my pen taken to death. Pen exploding from cardiac arrest from escalated matters of the heart, can’t quite handle the honesty that drips from a case that just breathed his last breath

I'd rather not chase something that doesn't even walk after me, I'd rather be authentic alone than replicated together but unfortunately authenticity comes with isolation fee. Bastard eyes bastardize the perspective of perceptive innocent green colored eyes shaded red, real eyes realize snakes slithering in the sheets even when perceptions are sprawled out like a casualty on Satan's bed. And even snakes that slither up the stairs won't get my stares, even a ten story escalator couldn't incline me to have a fuck to kill later

The knife penetrates but they're the ones getting fucked, cause when i swallow my pride I regurgitate it and sell it for the bait of the thoughts of many and quench the stomachs of a suicidal nation and call it a tummy tuck. The knife drags along the surface of my skin just like the surface of my emotions are only scratched by the blotty ink dripping from this pen