an old poem. Is it good? I can't tell.
Reattach the meaning to our words,
this can't be put off.
And have you ever really heard
some of the bullshit that you say?
Emptiness invades, and we're unwilling to be saved.
I hope you regret it,
regret the trade.
I know you'll regret it,
regret it some day.
I'm sure that these details must seem
a little useless.
It's 'cause you refuse to see,
the broken prose upon the wall,
of empty choral halls, in foreign tongue and dirty scrawl:
"The highest treason
is of ideals."
It's sense with no ceiling.
No fucking feeling.
This night is no hallowed eve.
It's neverending.
And though you claim devout belief,
there's nothing you can represent.
You're dropping books and pens, put out on sale, cut for trends.
Your eyes unseeing,
glued on TV's.
You claim some meaning?
I disagree.
(ok, ok, it's a Norfolk song and I can't sing. But I wrote it! and that's enough, right?)
this can't be put off.
And have you ever really heard
some of the bullshit that you say?
Emptiness invades, and we're unwilling to be saved.
I hope you regret it,
regret the trade.
I know you'll regret it,
regret it some day.
I'm sure that these details must seem
a little useless.
It's 'cause you refuse to see,
the broken prose upon the wall,
of empty choral halls, in foreign tongue and dirty scrawl:
"The highest treason
is of ideals."
It's sense with no ceiling.
No fucking feeling.
This night is no hallowed eve.
It's neverending.
And though you claim devout belief,
there's nothing you can represent.
You're dropping books and pens, put out on sale, cut for trends.
Your eyes unseeing,
glued on TV's.
You claim some meaning?
I disagree.
(ok, ok, it's a Norfolk song and I can't sing. But I wrote it! and that's enough, right?)