Скачать с ютуб Friendly Fire Isn't Fair - an original song by Joe McKeown в хорошем качестве

Friendly Fire Isn't Fair - an original song by Joe McKeown

Lyrics: I walk the walk just to walk, And don't talk and don't talk, Because I'm small enough to fall, Down not just one hole, but them all. I put my plans into motion, Though they're destined to fail, And it's true that I know that, Damn it, in the end it will pale, In comparison. When in juxtaposition, With the things that I've conquered, I overcame all my conditions, But my mind screams bullets, Into my own back, And I walk around, fractured, From attack after attack. Screaming: "Friendly fire isn't fair," But there's nobody there, Because, from time to time, My pain will pretend it's thin air. An invisible sickness, Will someone please sit this, Hollow boy down and stop him tearing at his stitches? Wraps his scars in the day, Unpicks the bandage at night, Twice as many on his left because he's using his right. From his hips to his ankles, He keeps his blade on the mantle, At all times, he's got to be, Prepared to do battle, With his demons and he burns and he learns, Not to show harm, Buys ill-fitting clothes, So he can cover his arms. There's a fire inside him, Eating him alive, And he's dying in situations in which others would thrive. I'm not the type to go for it alone. I'm not the type to say it hadn't crossed my mind. I'm not the type to say I don't want to go home. I'm not the type to tell you what is on my mind. I'm not the type to tell you what is on my mind. Despite the fact that he's factored, For farmers' fields feeling finer, He's finally figured that flicking shut his eyes, Won't feel diviner. Because the grass will be green, However hopeless it seems, But how are you to tell the colour, If you can't see? He could be blind or myopic, He could start it or he could stop it. He could pull together his broken ego, Or he could drop it. Or, he would if he could, He's never sure if he should, Because his type of luck never comes, From knocking wood. His trauma, With a sawn-off, Is a sore knock to a sweet spot, In a soft part, Of his temple and it's mental, And it takes shots, When his hell-hole, Of a day's just not eventful. He struggles through. He's confused. He can't pick up the phone, Unless he's alone, He'll still sit there, Counting rings and hoping nobody's home. He's already six feet under, At least in his head, He's stopped counting all the times, He's said he wished he as dead. There's still a fire inside him, Eating him alive, But he's surviving situations in which others would die. I'm not the type to go for it alone. I'm not the type to say it hadn't crossed my mind. I'm not the type to say I don't want to go home. I'm not the type to tell you what is on my mind. I'm not the type to tell you what is on my mind. I'm not the type to tell you what is on my mind. There's still a fire inside him, Eating him alive, But he's surviving situations in which others would die.