Ingrained ritualistic tendencies
Confuse and evade
And the things I’ve wanted to say
For so long, I simply haven’t the time
So I’m putting together a sarcophagus
of treasures inside of my backpack
Because these days, treasures are hard to come by
in this unforgiving sporadic existence.
Alpha, beta, charlie, delta.
Over the radio, frequencies appear
And disappear, set to disband
Setting precedent for military interventions
Some dark force compels me to write
My way out of a dry spell
Sequences fade out of view and return again
And the bright wide countryside scares me.
To be perfectly honest,
I miss the simple pleasures of Manhattan
even as I drive past the vitriol
and the calamity of it all
And I often long for the sour taste of venom
even as it pours down my throat.
It beckons me in, six different ways
To feel the pity and the sorrow.
There’s no compensation here,
just good old fashioned payback
and something a little bit different
than resting on laurels and easy comfort.
So what’s the drawback?
Well, nothing unless you value your privacy
and a little something for the road,
maybe served with ice and a lime?
But there’s something kind of certain about that
Isn’t there?
I’m still asking the same questions I once did
I made a case for myself that I redid
I’m lying to myself
even as I type this.
Are my opinions wrong?
Or is that just something I tell myself
so that I have something to feel sorry about?
Like when you enable slow mode
And while it’s enabled nothing comes through,
No matter how hard you try and ignore them
You’ll always hear the messages replaying
Inside your once full head.
I’ve come to the conclusion that
you are immune to slow mode.
The lights come up, I’m almost drowning
(Lights, above, lights up, above)
The silhouettes of dead poets surrounding
(Poets surround me, poets surround me)
I feel my hair raise, the cold on my skin
Am I okay with the state I’m in?
As the reflectors bounce up and down again
I see the questions coming out like a flood,
Am I a puppet or flesh and blood,
Am I a muppet selling off my soul,
Can I be more than what I owe?
If they say life is what you make of it
Then how come I’ve been asked to
Make something good instead of nothing?
If I wanna write a pop song, I can, can’t i?
If I wanna sit out loud then I can, can’t i?
I’m not afraid to shout it
But I'd rather tell you softly.
There’s comfort in the non-knowing,
So I embrace that and carry onward.
