Static eyes,
statue lips.

I'm comin' home.

My cradled soul,
hanging by a thread,

and I know.

I'm comin' home.

Soldiers went marching up,
most came tumbling down.

I'm comin' home.

Seven different pills in a clear, plastic cup,

getting harder every day to get down.

I'm comin' home.


Time is a ******* of a being.

Where are the keys?

Your guardians and your kin,
will gladly take you to the circus, you don't even have to move an inch.

You'll spend those days stuck playing games,
of which you never win.

I encourage your whole household to join a band,
Dad on guitar, Mom on bass,
they're picture perfect at pulling strings.

And your siblings can share the drums,
they love to keep the repetitive chaotic noise alive,
just hope and pray they don't tear each other's arms off.

Dear Miss Healer, I tore my veins from the surface for you,
and you sunk your teeth in.

Stabbed, jabbed, pushed that shard of young ancient mirror deeper in.

And I gave in.

I bled a whole, entire ocean,
and the well's still flowing,
with your teeth sunk in.

followed by pictured arrows, bolts, spears, covered in a new familiar toxin.

And I gave in.

If I lie here, hemorrhaging,
maybe my everything will clot, eventually,
with your teeth sunk in.

And I'll give in.

We're all wide-eyed,
shaved lambs,
to our social slaughter,

but along came our rebel herder,
the Serotonin Queen,
crowning.


We'll soon be a kingdom,
carefree.

We'll all be leading royalty,
known,

and you,
held high, sitting upon the throne.


Save us from ourselves.

We all share the same cell,
each other as our unknowing, unwilling captors.

Save us from ourselves.

We cut our teeth in this circle,
but you're leading the baring,
and guiding the biting down.

I've got scars.
How? You don't wanna know.
Believe me, kid, you don't wanna know.


I've got scars.
War? In a way, you could say,
but no, no, no, no.


I've got scars.
The one on my cheek?
Does it show? Does it show?

You've been working for so, so long,
that the potted dandelion by your bedside
is clasping on at the brink of a lonely, colorless death,

completely drained.

But with your long-awaited return,
and all those needed words you said,
has turned it a sunny side yellow again.

Join me,
in the cornfield,
run ashore from your sea.

In here, the stalks are your shield.

There's no longer any locks, but there still remains a key,
wonder who that might be?

Put down the sword you wield,
rather, knight the scarecrows,
this is our victory.

Come get lost in the cornfield with me...