Testo: Oh, Manhattan. Spiritual Warfare. Face Of Another.

At first glance, appearances mean nothing, but further down inside, judgment and heartache await
And I for one have grown weary from speaking out
So close your mouth.. Don't say a damn word

Just bask in the silence and pray for a small consequence
Lose all hopes of returning safe to the hell you call home

I will stain my arms with ink, and words that I would never speak
Cause everyone would be better off without me
Hold your breath, baby - your transmission's out of key
A subtle way to strap anchors to my body

I'm too tired to compromise.. it feels like a thousand knives penetrating
They're deep inside, so salt my wounds and show me that I'm alive
Cause everything I feel has started fading
And here comes the tide, my grave awaits.. this is truly genocide
Too many men have fallen just like me

I will stain my arms with ink, and words that I would never speak
Cause everyone would be better off without me
Hold your breath, baby - your transmission's out of key
A subtle way to strap anchors to my body

This broadcast is dead, no frequency heard
I will return to Mother Earth

As the air escapes, and my soul leaves my body
For a lonely grave
No time to talk, no time for words
Failed attempts to feel alive have left me barren and my journey ends tonight
This broadcast is dead, this broadcast is dead
And this is how it has to end