Woorden: August Burns Red. Home. Your Little Suburbia Is In Ruins.

Open those eyes, wake from peace
Orders are some favorite color
Same old, same old is their battle cry
Why don't we keep searching for a new flavor?

Our hearts have become a routine
Worthy kings have broken backs for nothing
Unless we cherish all with pride

The lines on our face will turn
Into canyons of sorrow instead of hope
They didn't die from the cold without
But they died from the cold within

And I just can't stop denying
That our brothers are in miserable pain
Stop short, lend a hand and break the chains
Of regularity that you lean so closely upon

Your little Suburbia is in ruins
Tear down all the assumptions you hold
For I guarantee they are false
Sometimes the best feeling may be the one that kills