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knight mayor, rap like yash - torn that flew through the eve lyrics


still wanting a tale out of me, but im stiff off all that ive crafted
entrust me with no paints, can’t push it, don’t want no more palettes
not hungry anymore, im too stuffed with all that my canvas’ lacking
i asked you hon’ to save me, huh, you did turn to me to a savage

think i trusted the dark a bit too much for i never saw you lurking
been dusting diaries for a while now, didn’t put my heart but it’s working
the papers pale, somehow fragile and i smell its vintaged cracks
the text’s too dark with faint emotions, can sense, that blood is jammed

i wrote verses, i quoted you, i wore myself on my sleeves
i gave my blood to your ashes in me, i feel my heart light me
but it hurts no more though im for the dim, but i see you in fire in me
do i hate, how my eyes have darkened or there’s no light in me?

f+ck it, ’cause you hated, the glimmer i had when i met you
please don’t tell me what demons are, i don’t want to get me mentioned
i love when i hate what i loved, no honey, don’t go down the memory lane
emptied pens, as i painted pains, too late to go through the empty days

let what’s dying accept the end, none’ lives to see couple moonlights
how’d you like those bright days when you see shadows’ where truth hides?
all goes down with the dusk’s dust, dark lets out your crude lies
surely ive seen you a few times to notice when your tooth bites

too long, ive been soaked in pages, the waves don’t seem to end
got cold blood but papers wet been boating through tweaked bends
dry corners with tear spots with hurled pennings which lost colors
the pages shorten as fall approaches, seem drifting plates which longed other
why’d i even jot my pen down for you when a breeze could erase my image?
not much of an artist to lend you my ear
but i tried listenin’ your livin’
my bad for forgetting apostrophes, the lines’ blurred, blame my vision
but somehow i saw light years ahead ‘cah you owed me some’ worth k!lling

too horridly, that man claimed he’d sell some’ good for his peace
said with itched, wretched, indebted soul, he longed for hours in green
guess, that poor fella never knew the fact fall doesn’t let one’ live
leaves rustle with all their might, to fall with wither and grieve

if they lived or died in peace, his love, is still a question
been hunting conclusions for while now, as fainter become his letters
these pale pages make for a canvas but his color palette’s been emptied
that surely is a wild torn page at end, guess the fall has struck at the ending

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