The only reality is that people die
So who do you tell all of your stories to or is "too busy" your excuse
Do you let it get to you
Whose are the names engraved on all of the tombstones
Do you let them get to you
Life still goes on for us but I know
We'll keep in touch with those ones once loved
So how do you end the pulsing in your head, the ringing in your ears
You just don't: you live with it
(and every breath has never seemed more fucking forced)
Who do you tell of all of your defeats and your fears
Do you let it get to you
Who's buried underneath your feet when you're chewing on dead ears
Do you let them get to you
The funny thing about death is that it's supposed to be an ending
But instead is something that just echoes
And rings out in the minds of many
A new heartbeat started at the end of another
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