We don’t know who we are, we’re pieces of paper torn apart (torn apart) with this stench of truth so hideously hidden in the dark (but we’re so beautiful). Peace within a single cell cost us all a life of someone we knew. But we will never tell what we really felt because it’s all our hell. We’ve made it all ourselves and we still believe what it tells, what it sells. What it tells, what it sells. We don’t know where we go. We’ll end up in nowhere falling low with this agony in our own hearts looking to be free (‘cause we’ve been here alone). We attack with guns and stones. Do we know the cost of all these bones? ‘Cause we will never tell what we really felt because it’s all our hell. We’ve made it all ourselves and we still believe what it tells, what it sells. We’ve made it all to become so lone.