Member Since: 8/27/2007
Band Members: Andrew Sexton
My Air
Hey my stars
Fade like yours and clouds
Do obscure my dreams
But I awake to find
The same sun hangin in the sky
Just like yesterday
So what's the difference?
You know I haven't found one single thing.
What's the meaning in living on for anything but you?
You're the only thing that remains true to me.
And I don't know how we will end
But I know we'll have a time
Getting there my love
You are all of my air.
Your air is what makes my world go round.
And your air is what makes all my sounds.
Baby and silence is the loudest scream from my soul
Without you.
And I don't know how we will end
But I know we'll have a time
Getting there my love
You are all of my air.
Ma vie, mon amour, ma vie, toujours.
I've found my place in the sun
By a stretch of the imagination sight unseen
I was graspin for you, I was gaspin for your air.
Influences: Sounds you've heard
Some you've not
Sounds Like: Reincarnation
The S.S
Truly everything that comes around does not go around.
I fear they'd love to bury me. I fear they'd love to hear the sound
Of simple-minded conversation filled with handfuls of placation...
They're sailing away
On an endless vacation
Where nothing's better to talk about than the weather and how
The playground creeks turn to swamps,
But you're no different than the flower your child brings home
Or the snake you stomp.
To my mortal wits:
Why does it always seem to me it's murder with formality
Kissing hands and attitude
They say don't be rude about what's killing you
The S.S. and Suburban Solitude.
Cast my silhouette onto the darkest road I've ever known.
Russian Roulette brought uninvited to your quiet home.
Young we are and young we'll stay he used his last breath to say:
I'm trying to put away
A mindless fascination
And regret her into seeing me better than just the voice of temptation.
The playground creeks turn to swamps,
But you're no different than the flower your child brings home
Or the snake you stop.
To my mortal wits:
Why does it always seem to me is someone coming after me
With cuffs in hand and attitude.
They say don't be rude about what's killing you!
THE S.S. AND SUBURBAN SOLITUDE.
Anti-cure and anti-remedy they are comin' strong and steadily.
Record Label: unsigned
Type of Label: None