Conceded from Head by Jacob Hutto

On the seventh day,
I ran out the house.
I tried to find my sense of humor,
But I only found doubt.
I feel alone.

And on the seventh day,
I took out the trash.
I feel rational and stupid,
But I only found doubt.
I feel alone.

And Autumn catches wind of my sins,
And I just feel fine.

Let me abstain from the stains on my carpet.
My body felt sharp,
But my bullet is hard to find.
Out of design.

And close-kept corpus is the chorus they sing.
They just want to shake their rings,
Around their silver fingers.

They sing out.
And they just doubt.

I just feel so conceded,
Yet my falsehood is just good enough to know.

On the seventh day,
I ran out the house.
I tried to find my sense of humor,
But I only found doubt.
I feel alone.

And on the seventh day,
I took out the trash.
I feel rational and stupid,
But I only found doubt.
I feel alone.

And Autumn catches wind of my sins,
And I just feel fine.

And I just feel fine.

• Experimental
• folk
• lo-fi
• post-folk
• singer-songwriter
• Spring