wisdom has many faces
hunting lights in their own riverbeds
i often smell truth and sometimes
it doesn't smell good..
why don't you hit me?
a fist hurts for a bit
was it for your own good?
or was it for mine?
all these long years,
these bloody tears went deeep down on my riverbed
smell truth and sometimes
it doesn't smell good..
why don't you hit me?
a fist hurts for a bit
was it for your own good?
or was it for mine?
why don't you hit me?