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Tears Of Blood - Ron Pope



     
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Tears Of Blood Lyrics


I sit and pick my brain each night
With an axe in my hand held tight
Bite my nose to spite my face
Killing myself, I can't escape the rat raceWallowing in neck-deep misery
Quicksand dissent, pressure free
Deepest wounds are self-inflicted
Should I hope to be vindicted?Always alone, society's abortion
Self-mutilation, the daily portion
Resentful past breeds hopeful future
With tears of blood, I remove the suturesDying inside, emotions they hide
Irreparable damage from the tears the I've cried
I climb from the sewer, the years that I have spent
Self-mutilation or my environmentTears of blood
(Tears of blood)
I cry
(I cry)
Tears of bloodTears of blood
(Tears of blood)

I cry
(I cry)
Tears of bloodDeny myself for fear of being
Is it over now, has my heart stopped beating?
Lying here just self defeating
My mind is empty, it won't stop bleedingTwisted anger screams my brain
Over the edge I hang in pain
Mouth locked shut my mind won't swallow
Tears of blood alone I wallowNo one to blame except myself
What you call masochism I call wealth
Maybe it's just a matter of pride
Too sweet to end with suicidePeel the scab, pour salt in the wound
Torturing myself, I'm forever doomed
Looking east and west each and every moon
A peaceful rest comes someday soonNo one to blame except myself
What you call masochism I call wealth
Is death life and do we live in hell?Tears of blood
(Tears of blood)
I cry
(I cry)
Tears of bloodTears of blood
(Tears of blood)
I cry
(I cry)
Tears of blood
(I die)

Enjoy the lyrics !!!
Where should I start…these stories, my music, it comes from all the places I’ve been, the people I’ve been blessed to play music along side, the way it feels to play my guitar until it bleeds or to bang on that old piano in my living room until my shoulders ache and my fingers won’t move anymore. From Georgia to New York, New York to the road; Charleston and Memphis, Vermont to Chicago. Turned 21, then 22…released my first record with The District…Maine and Boston and who knows where else…made love in the grass and meant it…walked down Wilshire, blinking in the Los Angeles sun… got lost in Delaware scrambling to get home to my family after too much time…swam in the ocean with the boys, thanking God for purple and orange Florida sunrises. Soaked up New Orleans…tried to become Levon Helm; realized I wasn’t much of a drummer……turned 23. Wrote A Drop In The Ocean with Zach Berkman and then put it away for six months because I didn’t get it…fell in love…drank whiskey from the bottle and howled at the moon…released Last Call…played the blues back-to-back with Buz in Charlotte and just about everywhere else along that godforsaken highway…the van broke down…we fixed it…the van broke down again. Got lost heading to South Carolina and ended up in Alabama…fell out of love and hit my head on the way towards the bottom…turned 24…made a Christmas album, because, damn it, I like Christmas albums. Played big rooms…played small rooms …listened to Van Morrison and cried…listened to trains scream somewhere off in the distance on ink-black sleepless nights… I traced the outline of a woman’s face on a piece of paper; someone I loved and didn’t want to forget once we’d put the whole thing to bed. The picture didn’t turn out the way I’d hoped, so I took my ink-stained fingers and spelled her name out in big, smeared letters on my arm. I guess that’s all I’ve ever really had…my words. This music is the story of where I’ve been, who I am, and where I’m going…these songs are my life.

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Ron Pope