fuck that ****** shit, my niggas on that savage shitOriginally Posted by Within
fuckin' the game and shovin' daggers through the ass of it
fuck that ****** shit, my niggas on that savage shit
fuckin' the game and shovin' daggers through the ass of it
the wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round.
You spin my head right round, right round
“My typology is . . . not in any sense to stick labels on people at first sight. It is not a physiognomy and not an anthropological system, but a critical psychology dealing with the organization and delimitation of psychic processes that can be shown to be typical.” —C.G. Jung
Don't remember where I was
I realized life was a game
The more seriously I took things
The harder the rules became
I had no idea what it'd cost
My life passed before my eyes
When I found out how little I accomplished
All my plans denied
How I did it make ‘em hate my spirit, they wish they could kill it
And they’ll take it however they can get it
Wanna see me fulla misery, walkin’ wit’ my head down
“Let’s decapitate him, then we’ll see if he can wear his crown
“My typology is . . . not in any sense to stick labels on people at first sight. It is not a physiognomy and not an anthropological system, but a critical psychology dealing with the organization and delimitation of psychic processes that can be shown to be typical.” —C.G. Jung
Simple smiles elude psychotic eyes
Lose all mind control rationale declines
Empty eyes enslave the creations
Of placid faces and lifeless pageants
Trapped in purgatory
A lifeless object, alive
Awaiting reprisal
Death will be their acquisition
“My typology is . . . not in any sense to stick labels on people at first sight. It is not a physiognomy and not an anthropological system, but a critical psychology dealing with the organization and delimitation of psychic processes that can be shown to be typical.” —C.G. Jung
What you gonna tell your dad
It's like a wheel of fortune
And what you gonna tell your dad
If this wheel lets you down
(..)
Stop acting cool
Just bet you might win
...and my ties are severed clean
The less I have the more I gain
Off the beaten path I reign
Rover wanderer
Nomad vagabond
Call me what you will
This magic winter night I see a light
Again I hear that tune, some sort of croon
Oh no, no, no, oh, my brain.
I see them gypsy waggons left in the snow
Oh, I must see that lady, I have to know
Gypsy woman, let me inside
They say you know the secret, secret of time
So gaze into your crystal and tell me
All you see
“My typology is . . . not in any sense to stick labels on people at first sight. It is not a physiognomy and not an anthropological system, but a critical psychology dealing with the organization and delimitation of psychic processes that can be shown to be typical.” —C.G. Jung
Blackened is the end
Winter it will send
Throwing all you see
Into obscurity
Death of mother Earth
Never a rebirth
Evolution's end
Never will it mend
Cause it's witchcraft, wicked witchcraft
And although, I know, it's strictly taboo
I know the pieces fit 'cause I watched them fall away.
Yes, don't turn your back on me, baby
Stop messin' around with your tricks
Don't turn your back on me, baby
'cause you might just pick up my magic sticks
“My typology is . . . not in any sense to stick labels on people at first sight. It is not a physiognomy and not an anthropological system, but a critical psychology dealing with the organization and delimitation of psychic processes that can be shown to be typical.” —C.G. Jung
Nomad, rider of the ancient east
Nomad, rider that men know the least
Nomad, where you come from no one knows
Nomad, where you go to no one tells
No one dares to even look or glance your way
Your reputation goes before you they all say
Like a spirit that can disappear at will
Many claim of things but no one's seen you kill
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