Monday, November 7, 2011

the city has sex with itself i suppose
as the concrete collides, well, the scenery grows
and the lonely once bandaged lay fully exposed
they undress their wounds for each other
and there's a boy in a basement with a four track machine
he's been strumming and screaming all night, down there
the tape hiss will cover the words that he sings,
they say it's better to bury your sadness
in a graveyard or garden that waits for the spring
to awake from its sleep and burst into green
well i've cried and you would think i'd be better for it
but the sadness just sleeps and it says in my spine
for the rest of my life
and i scream, but i still don't know why i do it
'cause the sound never stays it just swells and decays
so what is the point?
why try to fight what is now so certain?
the truth is all that i am is a passing event that will soon be forgotten.

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