All our lives we’ve been told to keep it low
Keep our dreams out of sight and on hold, and our thoughts dressed up in clothes…

Our hopes were like golden blue bows slipping from our frozen poses...
Our hopes for any kind of rightness peering out
from under our beds of excitement turned to functional poison…

And who are we now? The ones that look dead in a beautiful way… we never got to know us but say we’re okay…

And there’s so many actual dead, but we feel like we’ve lost a million realities before us…
So we say how it’s absurd and grotesque,
Shake our heads, and try to expect less…

And when the bullet finally flies towards us in slow motion; we question its beauty… the cold silver glow of a car window with the hope a teetering feeling is imbuing…