I can’t accept that my heart must turn to stone
just so that I don’t have to fade to dust and bone.
What good is life if you must go it alone?
Everyone should hear a voice versus a dial tone.

I don’t want to put a price on my head or on my soul,
and I don’t want to pay the price when I’ve already paid the toll.
Maybe I should take a lesson or two from a certain mole,
and find myself a nice warm and cozy hole.

Instead I resign and lay down on cold concrete
hoping it might absorb some of the sun’s heat,
like during days in the summer when it burns your feet,
they say you could hear an egg sizzle and it could cook your meat.

You may think I resemble a crumpled up bill,
discarded and thrown away at someone else’s will,
or maybe just another ant upon the hill
that’s awaiting to be squashed, just awaiting the ****.

Still I’m risking it all for just one more day,
even though the colours drain and then they fade to grey.
What you give you should not take away.
the rules keep on changing but not the way we play.

“Do you know what you’re doing, Em?”
I’m shaking my head and cheeks turn red.
Holding back tears but coughing up phlegm,
just consider me one of the walking dead.

And in all of that; myself I will find
and I’ll find myself becoming blind.
With clenched fists and teeth that grind,
living in the constraints of a mortal mind.

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.

Came to see if I was breathing,
I’m just needing a moment to calm down.
It’s just me still caged in this grieving
a sinking feeling causing me to drown.
Regardless of the gasping
it never stops; the question asking,
and my own answers are lacking
go ahead and tell ‘em, Long Lungs.

Hand over mouth in surprise and despair,
preventing fact from making a great escape.
A single breath couldn’t start to prepare
the never ending lines of caution tape.
Ignoring all of the many problems,
resigned to never solve them,
no one offers help so why involve them?
Go ahead and tell ‘em, Long Lungs.

I’ve been screaming silently most of my life.
Echoing pain and torment for endless miles.
Questioning visible scars while holding the knife,
that caused the death of seriousness and birthed countless smiles.

Came to see if I could tell or show
and speak the words I could never know,
while my grip weakens so I let it go,
and hope whatever falls can regrow.
Go ahead and tell ‘em Long Lungs.
Through all of the many seasons
they stopped changing and started bleedin’
I don’t judge’ cause I’m sure they have their reasons.
Go ahead and tell ‘em Long Lungs.

I’m getting greys
at an alarming rate,
I already pulled at my hair.
“It’s normal” he says
I swear just to debate,
cause he doesn’t seem to care.

And I’m bleeding through
my scar tissued skin,
the layers only grew
still I find a way in.

I’m getting greys
at an alarming rate,
I’ll be down to the last strand.
Check or fold the plays,
the cards aren’t that great
I’ll be down the my last hand.

And I’m bleeding through
my thick nice sweater.
It’s a shame as it’s new
and we’re reaching the cold weather.
It will stain the soft fabric
I may just grab the bleach,
but I always made it a habit
to always keep it just out of reach.

I’m getting greys
at an alarming rate
pretty soon I’ll be bald.
On hot coals she stays,
though she shifts her weight
and watches her soles scald.

And I’m bleeding through
my clogged and blocked pores,
and the remaining few
are becoming septic sores.
I’ll shed another layer
of a non-protective bubble,
and my hair will continue to get greyer,
I think I’m now in some trouble.

The Hallowe’en decor
has been put away for another year.
Christmas lights line each house and door,
illuminating every single tear.
The day of the dead has passed
but next holiday is one more for me,
since I’ve got the ghost of Christmas last
following me eternally.

Because you can’t weather proof against memories,
and you can’t keep grief from seeping through the windows.
The cold is the coldest of enemies
and it freezes you each time the wind blows.

The wind’s slapping at my face
and there’s a chill biting at my bones,
and in every snowflake; a feeling laced
“in our own arms we die”; all alone.
My mother was the spring,
just like it; she couldn’t stay very long.
The breath of fresh air she would bring
until her own breath wasn’t very strong.

Because you can’t weather proof against memories,
and you can’t keep grief from seeping through the windows.
The cold is the coldest of enemies
and it freezes you each time the wind blows.

No you can’t weather proof against memories,
and you can’t keep regret out of a locked door.
It has been that way for centuries
and it’ll be that way for centuries more.

She bruises easily,
she says “I don’t know why.”
“I’m like the monarchy,
they just won’t let me die.”
She pinches at her skin,
“do you see what I mean?”
It’s almost paper thin,
transparent and clean.

She comes up from the dirt,
born just ready to die.
Tugs and tears at her shirt,
fixes the cloth like a tie.
Changing each mask
within each new realm
and yet she still asks,
“Who put Bella in the Wych Elm?”

Wishing for the end
since around ‘96,
calling the reaper a friend,
“there’s no problem he can’t fix.”
“I had it all but at what cost?
I see no familiar face.”
“Every person I know is lost,
in life’s dreadful marathon race.”

She comes up from the dirt,
born just ready to die.
Grits teeth against the hurt
and keeps her eyes on the sky.
Still she juggles her tasks
and she steers at the helm,
and yet she still asks
“Who put Bella in the Wych Elm?”