I lie here and they’ve started, gongs fill the space above
With low vibrations, meant to soothe my soul
I can’t hear them, I can’t feel them, there’s a circus running through my head
With a soundtrack, the ringing in my ears
So the low tones wash over me, the high tones are locked inside my head
So the low tones wash over me, the high tones are locked inside my head
Rings of hate, am I hated, do I give as good as I get
Should I be selfless, or selfish with my heart
Rings of doubt, and derision, and years of suspect decisions
Fuel thoughts and notes and quips and clever rhymes
Healing is the process of being sound,
But the sound of the gong can’t penetrate the ringing in my ears
So the low tones wash over me, the high tones are locked inside my head
Healing is the process of being sound
But the sound of the gong can’t penetrate, the ringing in my ears
The echoes of my years, the pitches and the peals
Is it a legacy or catastrophe?
And the pages are now full, it’s the end of my book of hertz
Rings of nonsense, take over my head
Like hey, Mr. Pittman, can you tell me about that egg
Is there a reason, it doesn’t mean anything
Healing is the process of being sound,
But the sound of the gong can’t penetrate the ringing in my ears
So the low tones wash over me, the high tones are locked inside my head
So the low tones wash over me, the high tones are locked inside my head
In my head…
In my head…
In my head…
(c) Stanfield