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Sounds pulled from strings, strings pulled from bodies,
bodies pulled from skin, leaving a red lip under my lowest right rib.
There was once blood on the front, I've since scraped it off,
by playing hard, harder than when I bled,
to see where those efforts led.
Screams pushed over chords, chords pushed out the soul,
heart strings, plucked in 4/4,
arms pump in primal toil.
I get lost in the vacuum of possibility, so get *** if you can't keep up with me,
there's one hope, one hope for punk rock, so jump off, jump out into nothing.