This House Is Not A Home Testo
Testo This House Is Not A Home
I’ve reached the crux
With bent and dissonant faith
The gripping violence in my calm
Allocates no escape
Discourse, disharmony
Subdued in a bleak and dreamless sleep
Grandeur and larceny
The volatile becomes my verity
Desaturate these dismal eyes
Clot the flux to my cortex
Conceal the maelstrom inside
I still discern the scars of your abandonment
Mother
Where has the sun gone?
This old soul has felt far too cold for too long
And I'll wait
Through the darkest winter
My brittle bones buried in the creases of your bed
And I'll wait
Six feet under
For you to come home
To speak my name again
I’ve come to find my depth
My place of solace, my place of rest
A skeleton drowning in the tides of your shadow My laden conscience eviscerated and hollowed
Disperse these umbral skies
Retrieve my inherited demons
So I can sleep at night
And I'll wait
Through the darkest winter
My brittle bones buried in the creases of your bed
And I'll wait, Six feet under
For you to come home
To speak my name again
I found God in my sleep last night
In a place so vast, a space so dark
A void I'd crawl into on the premise that I would never awake
And we spoke
Oh, we spoke endlessly, blissfully of nothing
His words were deafening
His words were silent, defiant of my notoriety
Violent as my nature, and quiet as my thought
His quivers ripple through the seams of my anatomy
His words shattered my ribcage
Destructive as my subconscious
And I looked into his eyes an ounce short of conviction and said that I don't want to die
With affirmation he stated that I will find death in the darkest corners of the greatest perhaps
And to find myself I must have faith in that
Return me to the empty house in which I grew
Where I would converse with ghosts, a crawl space with a roof
And I know that I don't know who
The voice that calls from the other end pertains to
But I remember in my solitude
You were there too
Father
Where has the light fled?
A broken boy beaten and crucified
At the hands of your surrogate
With the remnants of this vessel
I will submerge my contempt
This repression is a loaded gun
I’ve cut the flux to my vitals
I am my father’s son
With bent and dissonant faith
The gripping violence in my calm
Allocates no escape
Discourse, disharmony
Subdued in a bleak and dreamless sleep
Grandeur and larceny
The volatile becomes my verity
Desaturate these dismal eyes
Clot the flux to my cortex
Conceal the maelstrom inside
I still discern the scars of your abandonment
Mother
Where has the sun gone?
This old soul has felt far too cold for too long
And I'll wait
Through the darkest winter
My brittle bones buried in the creases of your bed
And I'll wait
Six feet under
For you to come home
To speak my name again
I’ve come to find my depth
My place of solace, my place of rest
A skeleton drowning in the tides of your shadow My laden conscience eviscerated and hollowed
Disperse these umbral skies
Retrieve my inherited demons
So I can sleep at night
And I'll wait
Through the darkest winter
My brittle bones buried in the creases of your bed
And I'll wait, Six feet under
For you to come home
To speak my name again
I found God in my sleep last night
In a place so vast, a space so dark
A void I'd crawl into on the premise that I would never awake
And we spoke
Oh, we spoke endlessly, blissfully of nothing
His words were deafening
His words were silent, defiant of my notoriety
Violent as my nature, and quiet as my thought
His quivers ripple through the seams of my anatomy
His words shattered my ribcage
Destructive as my subconscious
And I looked into his eyes an ounce short of conviction and said that I don't want to die
With affirmation he stated that I will find death in the darkest corners of the greatest perhaps
And to find myself I must have faith in that
Return me to the empty house in which I grew
Where I would converse with ghosts, a crawl space with a roof
And I know that I don't know who
The voice that calls from the other end pertains to
But I remember in my solitude
You were there too
Father
Where has the light fled?
A broken boy beaten and crucified
At the hands of your surrogate
With the remnants of this vessel
I will submerge my contempt
This repression is a loaded gun
I’ve cut the flux to my vitals
I am my father’s son
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