Some people wear their heart up on their sleeve. I wear mine underneath my right pant leg, strapped to my boot.
You broke me bodily. The heart ain't the half of it, And I'll never learn to laugh at it In my good natured way. In fact, I'm laughing less in general, But I learned a lot at my own funeral. And I knew you'd be the death of me, So I guess that's the price I pay.
There's this brutal imperial power, that my passport says I represent. But it will never represent where my heart lives, only vaguely where it went.
Every time I say something they find hard to hear, they chalk it up to my anger, and never to their own fear.
I know my mind is made of matter but I need to know exactly what is the matter at it's core? Because my heart is just a muscle and simply put, it's sore.