A thousand and one unfinished thoughts
To the youth of my unmet America
I walk in your streets alone clouded in your night
And yet I know not where this blanket comes from
For your winter is much like
The winter chill in Moscow
Or the fierce breeze in Norway
Or at the bottom of some European subway
Taken to trenches where men used to hold each other and die
Now brought upon streets where men in freedom choose to lie
Of course these are civil pursuits
Hot air that spills from a workman's boot
Or a cleaning swiftly a brass man's flute
All job's in a world obsessed with the demanding aura of money
A long journey many take for an illusory land of honey
Demons lurk inside hallow mens wooden chests
That obsess and obsess and obsess
So as not to ever seem or act like the rest
But I am a hyprocite
A man with no eyes, no ears, no taste or smell
I preach these words that fall on ears and eyes
Which I will never whisper, shout or yell
A blowing horn in an empty room without music or dancing
Is a morgue where ghosts of emotion hang
Like a joke from a Kardashian
But a broke **** in the middle of the night from a friend that said they'd build you a mote
Is an adventure that any pleasure seeking man will turn to fiend to find
We are all the burning masses of a wishing well gone dry
Consistent in our refusal
Glorious in our rebellion
To lay ourselves meekly down
And die