i always come in first;
there is nothing to look forward to, but i do
we can look at the facts and it comes down to this
you choose not to hear me, instead you opt
to type away your life on a form.
(they won't read it, you know they won't, why do you care?)
do you think a prestigious (pretentious) panic room,
is the key to what you want to be?
you will think of me when you can't breathe
it will come down on you hard, fast, disgustingly stuffy
living your life following a routine
and the security is the cause of it.

you chose not to press the button, you
are the one who thought of this basement as the answer.

i come in first and it isn't for you;
the chair with wheels is moved to my desk and
it is only natural to make myself puke.
you will think of me when you realize i found fun
in absolutely nothing.
draw up your sick parabola,
you will find joy in the same quantity.

there is a ***** bottle here
i can only wonder why it's in your too soft hands
the same hands that hugged your mother goodbye
overjoyed, pumping them in the air
you submitted today, not an object, but yourself.

the glass seems full from here,
small, but you'll get tipsy nonetheless
with the scholar who'll forget your name after you fill her head
fill the empty impression of you with shots downed
she will forget you too, once you leave
the object of your admiration drowning you
like the bottle in your wake.

i can see it clearly too;
clear, plastic, bought without id,
you're happy to show it to me
knowing i won't tell your struggling father,
it'd break his heart- and it'd break you.

exclusion feels right with no consequence
and i'll still climb and climb this ***** fence
i dream of the same night but as a ******, i keep my mouth shut
(you'll be sick at midnight; it falls on deaf ears)