Confessions Of A Serial Self-Murderer Testo

Ploughing through the dead soil, returning with a parched home.Stuck in the transitory, but where the hell shall I turn, when every-corpse is facing the wall?I toss it down, with every button pressed down.But the sensation is merely a bleak image of a world above.
A try to asphyxiate.A chance to liberate, but will I die trying?I see the screen, I land and I bleed. God, can't you see I'm drowning?I hear the choir, to whom? The liar! Hang him high now! Hang him high now!
Crawling through the dead soil returning with a heartless home.Stuck in the transitory, but where the hell shall I turn, when every-corpse is making the wall?I toss it down, with every button pressed down.But the sensation is merely a bleak image of a world above.
I reveal, and now suffer the consequences of being a heathen.In the midst of the orthodox, it's a terrible thing to say.
Giving in is living in the dim. Fumbling in a combustible site with matches made of coal.