Our tender heads
Had to have protection.
Why hills?
We could of loved wearing
Thick honey forever and ever.
Remember the chaplain and his white
Peacefull print outs.
There's a prize if you can love god.
There's a way to write in perfect cursive.
A good world is seldome made.
A good father will never be real with you.
He has learned not to listen to opinions.
His son is idle
We both failed like paper bills.
We both lie to stay
surreal.
Because of his secrets I will
Have my own death to myself.
Because we have no courage
For dead beat reality.