Friday, November 21, 2014

at the gates of the bayou.

[My worries, I'll tear my fucking eyes out.
Where are we going,
 all the way?
We'll thumb the razorwire and praise our
Awkward situation.
Don't say I didn't warn you.]

We're learning a little bit more, day by day, how to forget, not forgive,
Well, so fucking what if we're killing ourselves? 
That never gave us reason before, nothing will give us reason now,
Now that we're not really even here at all. 

Dining, paging, texting, art, waits, lies.
And they're forming scars across us,
Lying across duvets and pillows, laughing,
Eating, calling, waving, paint, lines, lies.

We're the last kind, we fade a little bit more each day into regression,
Well so what if we're killing ourselves?
Despite what we say, anyway, we're all dead in some kind of way.
Well, farewell, burn in this barrio, panic in all our eyes,
But the abrupt punctuation of gunshots,
It never stopped us before,
It's critical now, your life's about to change course, the wave

all the waves are overwhelming
forming scars across us
digging graves as shallow as our breath
echoes of us
we vanquish our fears.
echoes of us.