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I'm not who with my eyes from stage I claim to be |
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I've only cradled death in my own ending flesh |
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From far off in abstracted lit |
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Candle wick flickering |
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And when a thing starts finishing around me |
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I faint or fake a mustache, an accent or flee |
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In fear my expired license be pulled by sheer proximity |
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Fact: |
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The poser in the bowler gets shot first |
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Thinks he's the shit 'cause he can spit and curse |
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Acting brash and flashin' a pistol that squirts |
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Scowling |
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And shouting |
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"Shall we dance?" |
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Should our hero's hands be holding this blackest purse? |
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Mom am I failing or worse? |
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Mom am I failing? |
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What should these earnest hands be holding? |
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Still sportin' my ex-girlfriend's dead ex-boyfriend's boxers |
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I wanna operate from a base of hunger |
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No longer be ashamed and hide my |
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Tears in shower water while I |
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Lather for pleasure |
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I wanna speak at an intimate decibel |
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With the precision of an infinite decimal |
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To listen up and send back a true echo |
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Of something forever felt but never heard |
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I want that sharpened steel of truth in every word |
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The small fry in the bow tie dies first |
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Acting wild like the spirit of God movin' after church |
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Fakin' he's hard like packed-down dirt |
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Already |
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And yelling |
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"Be my guest!" |
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Should our hero's hands be holding this blackest purse? |
|
Mom am I failing or worse? |
|
Mom am I failing? |
|
What should these earnest hands be holding? |
|
Should our hero's hands be holding this blackest purse? |
|
Mom am I failing or worse? |
|
Mom am I failing? |
|
What should these earnest hands be holding? |
