Prisoners

We wake up in a bed of sin
And stare up at the ceiling as high as the sky
Like it's our way to fly
We're chasing a reason to exist
But can't seem to escape the [bad word] in circles around happiness

With houses made of gold
Controlled by what we own
We follow what we're told
Fit right into the mold
Is this what we need to breathe
Or are we just feeding our disease

With houses made of gold
Controlled by what we own
We follow what we're told
Fit right into the mold
Is this what we need to breathe
Or are we just feeding our disease

Prisoners of a hopeless war
Fighting with a double edged sword
We could be free
If we stop feeding our disease