Let's sit around and pick apart the very things that make us real.
Let's rip apart our hearts.
Let's sit around and throw around our thoughts and cheap feelings.
We'll draw lines into the simple skin of empty promises.
We'll strip down what's left of the failures in our lives and simply run in scattered patterns around the sinking shore.
We'll throw our hands up and say, "We've done it again! Change is only a weasel."
I have come to find that these fine lines that I paint along the outer lands of reality are askew on my easel.
My wings are full of wholes and my sails are broken feathers.
Up is down and black is white, obviously blue.
There is no comforting place inside the pit of glory.
Your grass isn't greener because your grass is real.
We wander around with our soggy waffles and wonder where we went wrong.
To fat to open our eyes and see the grimacing python.
Foolishly you dance into the grip of slithering seduction.
And you wonder why it's becoming so hard to breathe.
You let in the very things that you swore you would never love.
Look at you trying to have your ice and drink it too.
Do you think the sickness gives a hoot if you make it or not?
You're just another casualty in it's lust for control.
How sickening it must be to know all the answers, but never get it right.