A Steady Eighty-Five Degrees

[from_farewell]

it may be cold in my room
and empty in my stomach
dialouge caught in my teeth
and things catching up from states ive been to and fled
the authorities have finally figured out i left my heart
and maybe theyve come back to replace it with irony
and bruises, this ego is about due for a beating
speaking out of turn, wait your turn
speaking out of turn, i never got my turn
it may be cold in this living room
and empty in my stomach
maybe i should go out shoplifting again today
because everything i've stolen has abanoned me
everything ive adored has repeated this sweater
unravleing with seams and threads the culprit
whos to blame, for my obession with the opposition
locked inside this cell society throws me in
we sleep indoors, we live in our homes
our homes are the definition we define ourselves by
muted walls and bare floors hold us hostage
muted conversations and idle friendships keep us safe
safe from the things we've grown afraid of
like walking in the park after the suns curfew
in fear another off white shade of flesh will harm us
like climbing a lonley tree when its been invaded by concrete and steel
for fear corporate slaves will arrest us
hear my cries, meet me in the warmth our ideals produce
and bring the keys you keep inside your chest, to unlock the shackles
it may be cold in your chest
and empty in your heart
but i've done my part, turned on the furnace
a steady eighty-five degrees, eight-five degrees