(no subject)

[bapudi]

A fond memory is something that shouldn’t be looked over. A stretch in the morning, my mother busy making coffee, my father rushing to get to work in a low paying dead-end job, I sat and listened to the crackle of the rabbit ears as my older brother tweaked them ever so slightly just enough to grab the attention of a certain channel 7. Lets all admit it, and if you’re in my generation, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Striking a chord deep in my heart for an adventure beyond my pseudo-socialist parents, the ennui of first grade, the tender bruises on my knee, here was an accessible escape from reality, a nomenclature of sorts between myself and the peers I had that were wise enough to admit their weaknesses instead of spending time on exploitation.

(A scratch and a fart and the rise of the sun.)
I’ll tell you baby, I’ve never seen the sunrise
And something else, I never will
I can’t understand losing the taste of the night
Searing my mind and a burning in my heart
Loneliness is a perfect compliment to the longing of the night

And that’s why I’ll never see the sunrise baby
And I don’t think I ever will
Never want the end of the night baby
Never want life without that thrill

Stick it in and around and pull out my heart
Add a spike, a twist, make it poetic
Hang on to that feeling, you aren’t dead yet
Stacking portraits in my dresser drawer

And that’s why I’ll never see the sunrise baby
And I don’t think I ever will
Never want the end of the night baby
Never want life without that thrill