The sky presses down on
us, this town, this
dump, this place where down
is up. Where up is out, where
swinging at night is
the only way to doubt
you’re dying.
And it’s carried me this far-
I wear this town like an
old scar- It’s been hard.
But I’m not dying
anymore, I’m flying out this
door- I’m moving,
I’m living,
I’m out.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
The sky presses down on
us, this town, this
dump, this place where down
is up. Where up is out, where
swinging at night is
the only way to doubt
you’re dying.
And it’s carried me this far-
I wear this town like an
old scar- It’s been hard.
But I’m not dying
anymore, I’m flying out this
door- I’m moving,
I’m living,
I’m out.
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