i jot it all down
as if the transfer
from one point to another
will bring you back home
you always lied
with terrifying ease
as i always pretended not to know
to love you is to advocate for what is dead
to add to existing false moments
and the lost pieces in my head

Empty pocket and empty plates;
safely locked it away still it dissipates,
a climber of corpses climbs high to something great,
and the rest of us are buried standing within this fate.

Life wouldn’t be tragic if it wasn’t also funny,
it seems to lose a lot of magic when you lose alot of money.
Life’s a ***** but isn’t she powerful?
It’s time to eat the rich because we weren’t born full.

The people’s scale is forever weighing
basic human rights against complete anarchy.
The right choice seems obvious to me, obviously,
but the indecision’s crazy with the lack of priorities.
A climber of corpses climbs high to heights we’ll never see,
I’d rather be a stone than those doing the stoning.

Life wouldn’t be tragic if it wasn’t also funny,
I think that I’ve had it with their vinegar disguised as honey.
I won’t make another stitch in their golden wool,
it’s time to eat the rich ‘cause we weren’t born full.

A bullet in the street shot from behind;
validated and woke up millions.
No retreat and not changing their minds;
vilified for targeting their billions.

If they really cared they’d ask if you could buy morality,
though typically they’d see if they could find it on sale.
The funniest part is that they could acquire it for free
but it’d be just like giving an atheist the Holy Grail.

Life wouldn’t be tragic if it wasn’t also funny,
it seems to lose a lot of magic when you lose alot of money.
Life’s a ***** but isn’t she powerful?
It’s time to eat the rich because we weren’t born full.

Life wouldn’t be tragic if it wasn’t also funny,
more bills; they stack it and the weather stays sunny.
Rock bottom in a ditch, dazed and in a lull
now it’s time eat the rich ‘cause we weren’t born full.

Stars above,
glistening the sky.
Golden teardrops fall from high.
The weary moon begins to die,
As the city sings a silent lullaby.

The wind blows soft,
the leaves flow far.
The night falls and tumbles hard.
The stars align,
the moon now cries,
As the city sings a silent lullaby.

The sun slowly rises.
The stars slowly die.
The night loses feeling,
the day comes alive.
Morning creeps slowly,
night falls behind.
As the city sings a silent lullaby.

I can see in the dark.
And it hurts my head.
I close my eyes but still see the light.
I don’t want to see it, I’m aching, so exhausted.
Everyday there’s something wrong and every night there’s something keeping me up.
The dreams are not vivid.
The people in it are invisible.

It gets old to be here.
Everything gets old.
Feels old.
Not in a good old way but lame, unexciting, uninteresting.
I’ve heard it all before, I’ve seen enough.
I want to be new, feel new, everything.
Sparkling, alive.

I see in the dark, distracting.
It hurts.
I need that light off if there’s nothing good.
To see.
To feel.
To be.
Where the dreams are not vivid.
Not feeling much, only unpleasant.