Running for the hills
Running for his life
Like three blind mice from a butchers knife
Each and every night
Haunting sights from childhood eyes
To Dali landscapes running wild
The memories dreams can find
He protects his bones with sticks and stones
But who can fight
The thoughts that bruise the mind
Throwing punches in his sleep
He's paralyzed from fist to feet
Shaking in his sheets
In broken words he tries to speak
His tongue tied in straight jacket sleeves
Silence drowns his screams
He protects his bones with sticks and stones
But who can fight
The thoughts that bruise the mind
