The city has sex with itself I suppose
as the concrete collides, while the scenery grows,
and the lonely once bandaged lay fully exposed
having undressed 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 it`s sleep and burst into green.
Well I`ve cried, and you`d think I`d be better for it
but the sadness just sleeps and it stays in my spine
for the rest of my life.
And I`ve learned and you`d think I`d be something more now
but it just goes to show it is not what you know
it is what you were thinking at the time.
This feeling`s familiar, I`ve been here before.
In a kitchen this quiet I waited for a sign or
just something that might reassure me of
anything close to meaning or motion (with a reason to move).
I need something I want to be close to.
And I scream, but I still don`t know why I do it,
because 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 be forgotten
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