||media||whore|| (lemitagate) wrote,
||media||whore||
lemitagate

sometimes i can't afford to backslide.
i've been mining through my boyhood fantasies
and finding that some of them still feel good to me;
still fit perfectly, working like a charm.
draped around my shoulders, old friends keep me warm
in my parents car.
five full years of screaming with the stereo up,
so when i run i just push pedals, my feet barely budge.

i've tried keeping the world out
of my sovereign nation - station wagon;
the place where i felt safe to keep moving.
the scenery changes so i don't have to.
i still can't drink, stil convinced
if i can't do it myself, doing it's worthless,
cos the world will come out in the end from under.
you set yourself up when you're counting on others.

i'm not sad, i'm passed desensitized.
friends drop like flies and cut their own lines,
and at the end of the day it's just me and my flat line.
send electricity, let me not smile.
let something puncture the numbing force field.
we erected young men to protect how we feel.
i've been mining my boyhood dreams
and i found one that never made sense to me
up until now.

that car takes a corner carelessly,
tearing its wheels from the street,
from the air to the trees by the side of the road.
twisted heaps of debris, shine of glass,
and the cold wet grass on my face,
some blood in my mouth, the taste washed out
by the headlights passing on by.

i'm lying, resting in the wreckage,
half asleep and completely defenceless.
no proection from scavengers, weather,
and a few days of rain.
which worsens the smell of it all.
but no one complains, a crew will be called
to scrape these remains eventually.
some cars slow down and kids crane their necks to see.
most just swerve, left unimpressed, forgetting me.

you can make your very own poison, despicable man.
begin by keeping him a boy for as long as you can.
and when the voice in his head says that everything's wrong,
let him think we'd be convinced but only with the right song.

_cex_waybackmachine


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