I've been buried in your clothes
Year by year as I watch you grow
The weight of this world doesn't apply
Only pants and shirts fill up my sky

When you leave your home, I'll be fine on my own
I will never try to find out where you go
And when you go away, underneath your clothes I'll remain
I just wish you had the time to play with me

I thought you needed me since we met
Your feet say otherwise with every step
The weight of this world doesn't apply
Your pants and shirts fill up my sky

Little by little my arms collapse
Just dust and echoes fill the gaps
The weight of this world doesn't apply
You buried me under your sky

Another one for the slaughter,
When every sight doesn't meet your eye,
You'll throw another one over,
So you don't swim with the coming tide.

Get your hands off, this is way out of order,
A spring without purpose is fall towards disorder.

So what's your cause in a war,
You stomp out your brothers you swear to be standing for,
To find your place in the stars,
Instead of a poster you keep folding over.
Activist, Anarchist, show me a sign,
Who's crossing the line,
Pinch hitting for every side,
Between a somber stampede and a streetlight regime,
Just who's power hungry.

It's all the same old condescension,
You lack the motives behind your smile,
We can't just keep the **** collection on a sidewalk for a rain check,
So drown in your own denial.

Sink or swim, what does the current circumstance call to you when sirens drown out everyone.

As cycles stay direction, you'll waste your clocks to ******* preach.

As cycles stay direction, you wasted clocks to preach,
Spare no integrity with veiled intentions,
Convulsing with delight in your own speech.
Fancied yourself a martyr,
And yet it's getting harder just to shoulder a cross,
Walk out onto the water,
To turn a prophet, there is always a cost.

Forever moving two steps forward,
Then always falling three steps back,
It's like an arms race against a world,
Perfectly cinched around my neck.

This is the back and forth with myself,
The tug of war I've waged so long,
And now the walls are growing closer,
Every exit I knew is gone.

With self destruction as a constant,
I've always found the time to ****,
Be it in health or motion sickness,
Whether sitting or standing still.

Is everybody looking my way,
Or do my twitching eyes deceive,
I'm paralyzed by your intentions,
Or what they all perceive of me.

So this is panic at its finest,
But I swear I'll be ok,
These hands were made to pick myself up,
Despite the pieces drifting away.

My conscious, my chemistry,
A single voice, just a drop in an endless stream,
My purpose, a heavy price to pay,
Worthless to the person I am today.

The sliver under my nail, the hole torn in my sail,
The inconceivable back up plan destined to fail.
The solitude of the sheets, the **** torn in my cheek,
With my words bleeding through, now biting down, so to speak.

And it's torture, fighting fiction with a thought.

And I was doing so well...

Deep in memory foam,
I could have sworn I felt you.

The index and the middle hiking up a shoulder,
Catching a view past brunette strings to window folders.
Golden slivers make a home where the thought used to count,
While the rain leaves the cranium reflecting in a drought.

A field of plastic rests where you used to be,
And I hug every single piece closer to me.
And if I hold each one of them long and tight,
It's like the skin never left that night.

I will hear your bones scratching for keys,
Carrying each ring over cigarette burnt seas.
You'll find me drowning and resurfacing from my dreams,
Shipwrecked on a raft made of polyurethane and memories.

Every white bump we used to count in any weather,
Now merely constellations we'll never shape together.
All the fictional backlash that echoed from the walls,
Bleeds out a fable and falls.

Returning with a bottle yet again,
And this is what you call confidence.
Disguising glass with see through hands,
But I still don't understand.

I'm a moth asking light hearted questions,
Answer me then-
What do you think of,
Love or the idea.

Gaze to the glass,
Descends an ashtray,
Just as it mutates,
A chirping of ice like families, nestled in the acrylic riverside.

Conquer the silhouette,
Formulaic and mundane,
From heir to a lung tight riot,
Dubs a throne of fibers and ash, a coagulated monarch.

In her pursuit,
To predestined heaven,
Connects an ashtray,
Weakens the soles of a nail, strikes the floor.

Strikes the floor.

Strikes the floor.

Strikes the floor.

Consequential cornea,
Staring at a canvas,
Violently resisting a cloud of salt water,
Selfishly succumb to the follicle strands,
They administer a quiet reprieve,
Two convoluted colonies of physical expressions,
Where one is ambivalent and the other unconvincing,
Into an ether of color and disorder, tortured on a skin tight easel,
He is trying so hard to paint a smile on that face,
But his brush is dry, his paint mixed together,
Attempt to break the silence,
To be met with a lethal interjection.

I know this doesn't make sense,
It never does,
So I will put this into words you'll understand,
I am gone,
Out the window,
Free fall into concrete,
Gurney waiting calmly,
For a chord to pull,
A pillow over my face,
A needle shoved in my vein,
A lethal interjection,
A desperate panic attack,
I'm setting you free,
And you will be happy.

An ocean of leaves refuse to catch me as I drown,
Offering scratches from branches as I settle down,
And, of course, my final view would have a dark patch of clouds,
That don't even have the decency to shed a raindrop for me now.

The wind at my back passes so fast as if attempting to ignore me,
Not even a bird whistles a cheer as I plummet towards the street,
My shoes, my wallet and my keys abandon me and flee,
As if to make it easier for gravity to take me.

Optimistically, at least I won't hear any annoying sirens,
No people to act like I'll be ok, no false promises,
Just a bed of concrete for a body to lie and sleep,
And while the world turns away, at least the asphalt will hold me.

And I know I deserve this, this was destined, this was written,
From those final words left carelessly on a note in the kitchen.