Here we are with burning skin, where we've always been,
and we all collide, in the rising tide, then weather in the wind.
We live our lives like hands are tied, and dead end days of dreaming,
embrace the race of everydays, but forsake the feeling.
Are we killing time, while these days unwind.

We can't see past our own sad stories,
and wonder what we're missing,
we can't see past our own sad stories,
and forget how to listen.

But did there ever come a time, when things weren't so defined,
we've given new names so our hopes and our pain,
but love just gets harder to find.
We wrestle with what we think we should say, and hang our selves out in
the air,
but most of the time, I think you'll find,
that we're just pretending to care,
and it's a crying shame, how'd we get so trained.

We can't see past our own sad stories,
and wonder what we're missing,
we can't see past our own sad stories
and forget how to listen,
We can't see past our own sad stories,
and wonder what we're doing,
we can't see past our own sad stories,
and forget who it is we're fooling.

Here we are with burning skin, where we've always been.