The Modern Age... So far.
We are the true meaning of a god complex.
slowly dripping into our seems like dirty bathwater.
messages on sandy shores.
eyes that scream for comfort
and hold onto their grudges.
we are life at its finest.
holding hands in these underpasses.
streets full of cars,
whose passengers hate their lives,
all around us.
does this black market sell worlds?
ones where you make the right decisions,
where you hope for a better tomorrow and receive it?
I sure hope that they do.
I could sure use a few replacements for all of these
i-o-u's and their old telephone numbers.
you are just a child
and you still know how to scream out in agony at your missing limb.
but you are right handed
and you don't need to be ambidextrously today.
that, we can fix in a while.
didn't you realize that we eat
this volcanic ash like it is our last meal?
we poison ourselves because we do what we are told.
if I could break this mold, I would run.
We read Poe for his ego and fear Orwell for his honor.
We listen to Mozart like he is on fire
and we are doing him a favor.
We are the children of the Avant Garde
and we live for the obscure.
We breath deeply the sounds of the city
and cough at the silence of the woods.
We are the modern age.
Plastic Jesus, and cold-back seats.
Stolen cutlery, and street lights.
Starry skies, memories.
Sitting on street corners, we balance
between the meaning of everything
and what to eat.
Though life depends on prices,
we drive just to waste a tank of gas.
We waste away in your basements
and in your cars.
We whisper words
that come across as screams.
We sleep with the lights on
to avoid the coming sun.
A crimson ribbon, discarded,
between the bottles on the floor.
Pieces of paper, our secrets scrawled upon them,
laying, avoided, on the floor.
Don't cry for us, we were always lost.
We are the collective ego, a mass
drifting from room to room
stopping only to lap at information, retardation
things we have knows for year
our minds filling, past the breaking point
and on to over flow
we have lies dripping from our lips
we rise from mostly sleepless nights,
ignorance heavy in our hands,
and on to wakeless days.
push on, drones.
push on, anamatons.
push on, you desensitized, mindless, hedonistic children.
feed upon the turmoil
of a thousand hungry souls and know
that you eat well.
you, sick and healthy, young and old,
wealthy, poor, ignorant, intelligent, blind, with sight, crippled, walking, false, true.
we are all made for kindling
we will be burned for our plight, poised, upon the precipice
ready to fly towards a bleak dawn.
"...not with a bang, but a whimper..."
slowly dripping into our seems like dirty bathwater.
messages on sandy shores.
eyes that scream for comfort
and hold onto their grudges.
we are life at its finest.
holding hands in these underpasses.
streets full of cars,
whose passengers hate their lives,
all around us.
does this black market sell worlds?
ones where you make the right decisions,
where you hope for a better tomorrow and receive it?
I sure hope that they do.
I could sure use a few replacements for all of these
i-o-u's and their old telephone numbers.
you are just a child
and you still know how to scream out in agony at your missing limb.
but you are right handed
and you don't need to be ambidextrously today.
that, we can fix in a while.
didn't you realize that we eat
this volcanic ash like it is our last meal?
we poison ourselves because we do what we are told.
if I could break this mold, I would run.
We read Poe for his ego and fear Orwell for his honor.
We listen to Mozart like he is on fire
and we are doing him a favor.
We are the children of the Avant Garde
and we live for the obscure.
We breath deeply the sounds of the city
and cough at the silence of the woods.
We are the modern age.
Plastic Jesus, and cold-back seats.
Stolen cutlery, and street lights.
Starry skies, memories.
Sitting on street corners, we balance
between the meaning of everything
and what to eat.
Though life depends on prices,
we drive just to waste a tank of gas.
We waste away in your basements
and in your cars.
We whisper words
that come across as screams.
We sleep with the lights on
to avoid the coming sun.
A crimson ribbon, discarded,
between the bottles on the floor.
Pieces of paper, our secrets scrawled upon them,
laying, avoided, on the floor.
Don't cry for us, we were always lost.
We are the collective ego, a mass
drifting from room to room
stopping only to lap at information, retardation
things we have knows for year
our minds filling, past the breaking point
and on to over flow
we have lies dripping from our lips
we rise from mostly sleepless nights,
ignorance heavy in our hands,
and on to wakeless days.
push on, drones.
push on, anamatons.
push on, you desensitized, mindless, hedonistic children.
feed upon the turmoil
of a thousand hungry souls and know
that you eat well.
you, sick and healthy, young and old,
wealthy, poor, ignorant, intelligent, blind, with sight, crippled, walking, false, true.
we are all made for kindling
we will be burned for our plight, poised, upon the precipice
ready to fly towards a bleak dawn.
"...not with a bang, but a whimper..."