Letras: Paint It Black. Paradise. The Phamacist.

The medicine cabinet's empty, there's nothing for my head. Inside I'm made of concrete, my eyelids feel like lead. I'm feeling for pulse but it's no use. My head was screwed on tight, now it's coming loose. I've been to the bottom of a bottle or two, that shit just kept me down. I'm sick of shortcuts that leave me on the fucking ground