|
1. |
|
|
|
|
Ethics crumble, stifled by instinct. Will there ever be a middle ground? My conscience unearthed in a lost and found, buried in this chest where logic’s ghost is obliged to scrounge. Donated to the needy and the desperate. “Feed me” my biology is screaming – seething, restless. I cannot meet you eye to eye. Lying to myself in a vain attempt to justify, but knowing that the moment has passed. What little chance I had has now receded to black. I was the one who always had a choice. My silence leaves us both without a voice. You greet me with the bliss of ignorance. I saturate what’s left of our acquaintance with this pervasive distrust. There was a chance to purge the ghost. There was a chance to earn the self respect I deserved. There was a chance to serve a purpose – something I would have the nerve to uphold and preserve. There was a chance to learn, but now I am chained to my wrongdoings and sinking far below.
|
|
2. |
|
|
|
|
The cycle self-defeating. Worship, sleep and praise dead flesh in hopes of something greater. Indebted to illusory rewards, unphased by the transparence of what’s sworn. Swallowing the swill you’re indentured to with a smile. Heaving on the cross, lathering my sick upon the son. Believe in circumstance. Believe in my demands. Deny what’s thrust upon you. Decry him, I implore you. Deny distortion of the values we have learned. Decry imposing of his word upon the herd. Deny acceptance of manipulated truth. Decry conception of a charlatan from a prude. Thou shalt not worship anything that could never worship back. Man is mortal and so is he. No messiah in our message. Try walking on water and we will part the seas.
|
|
3. |
|
|
|
|
For all lies distilled into brew funneled down our throats, and the shock of the vision and the voice too hoarse to promote our ascent. Breathing in an ocean's worth of pestilence. Cascading firefall. Windows flicker past as gravity makes peace with me. With a gaze to rival Caligula, and a resolute embrace, I am now beckoned into waking sleep, breaking ceasefire with my being. Factored into every action and burnt into every passive regression into distraction, convincing oneself to relinquish control. The path is yours alone, but the latticework cannot be called your own. Like a screen door creaking keeping our eyes open, but never wide enough to let them through. We’re burdened by our focused point of view. Grasping for a faith we can abuse. Gnawing at our guts to cut us loose. Tangled in the tendrils of this ruse. Reclusive in spite of wrong and right. Elusive in light of the miracle of flight. We must shed the fuselage and soar into the night. We have bred an apathy that compromises foresight. Is this all that there is? I cannot accept that this is how I’m supposed to live. This can’t be all that there is. One of us will have to pay for what you have bestowed. All of us will have to pay for what you have bestowed, with lonely nights our lowly species rights, divided again.
|
|
4. |
|
|
|
|
Our locked limbs sunken with the teethmarks of truth, scattered like dew droplets on quaking lilypads, trembling in the wake of anothers hardship. You’ve never been beckoned to give yourself away, nor were you meant to traverse these fjords, marveling at the maelstroms and cowering from the precipices. Necessity played no role, your willingness the only precedent. Your strength leaves me awestruck, timid in the limelight of this beating monument to spirit. Cocooned insecurity worn into the hardwood floors, aching to be pulled free from the varnish and stripped of splinters - left exposed like brick in the loft of a starving artist. That starving artist is me. I yearn to be your vessel. I yearn to be the tabernacle for your torment and the anchor for your anxieties, for only through selflessness can security be sought, and only through immersion can love’s language be taught. I am yours in all my dysfunctional glory, and aspire one day for you to say the same. I am yours, and I pray one day that you will say the same.
|
|
5. |
|
|
|
|
The less I acknowledge, the more I will gain, at least that’s what they tell me at my wake. And if I make a choice, am I forging a path that will pave the way for future endeavours? Leaving a mark that will perpetually stain the looseleaf in this book? Drowning defectors? Rubbing raw the scar that is threatening to linger by hook or by crook? Despise what I’m offered, cause it’s never enough to dampen the din of this doubt, pouring over my wounds like peroxide. Your locks tied behind the contours of your smile. A frivolous grin or a gesture of your love? Render me remembered if all else is lost. My pulse like an automatic weapon, my neurons like fireworks at dawn. Turmultuous winter I reckon this freewheeling sentiment has spawned. All I can do is hope. The pitter-patter of your fingers on the small of my back. All I can do is hope, but isn’t that all one can ever do when your heart is in another's hands?
|
|
6. |
|
|
|
|
As these lyrics betray the things I'm uncomfortable with admitting, I recognize it's highly unlikely that you will ever read a word, and it's equally absurd to assume that it would have an impact at all. Yet still I try to communicate, discarding inhibition like so much dead weight, but only in the boundaries of binding. These margins will attest to this cowardice. I'm finding it hard to differentiate between my shadow and I. I'm finding it hard to keep control despite myself. Censored without speaking at all. If it's a hint of what's to come, it's probably best that I stall. Arising every morning, the rolling fog distorting what little view I have of what you expect me to do, yet somehow I am aware of what truly is at stake. I will never trust again if I leave this to the fates. Would you like to buy a fucking vow? Cause constants are in short supply these days. I'm breaking the fourth wall for you. I'm breaking the fourth wall, and it's all for you.
|
