Sunday, December 11, 2016

all these scenes are pretentious

on your soapboxes pontificating
talking at each other without listening
picking out whatever suit fits the best
choose your stance
let the tailor figure out the rest

accusations leading to fights
arguing without any insight
two alike minds alone in a room
can't find compromise
looks like we're all doomed

if they could just agree none of this matters bu

the rhetoric passed through groups with
a million faces all warping their truths,
it's all just to feel right, it's all just to feel right
stepping on each other for a righteous high-ground
enjoying the view while looking down,
it's all just to feel right, it's all just to feel right

can't shake this feeling this all stems
from an inferiority complex
all this crying, the victimization
a sorry attempt at domination

majority rules, now you're the new lords
death to those find fault with your royal concord
spilling their blood, a demonstration of strength
another casualty on your path to omnipotence

if they could just agree none of this matters but

the rhetoric passed through groups with
a million faces all warping their truths
it's all just to feel right, it's all just to feel right
stepping on each other for a righteous high-ground
enjoying the view while looking down
it's all just to feel right, it's all just to feel right

well guess what?
they won!
while you were all at each others throats!
they won!
while climbing social ladders!
they won!
while silencing your neighbors!
they won!
and they'll win again and again and again
and they'll win again and again
and they'll win again and again and again
and they'll win again and again
so get used to losing

Thursday, December 8, 2016

ode to my punk rock queen

I've been told before life doesn't get easier,
couldn't understand and never bothered cracking the meaning,
the script continues, playing itself out
to late nights, drugs, booze and spilling soul
until it the haze and static clears and no one is left,
there's no scene to accompany my madness,
all things go the way of the wind
and we're left with nothing but the characters of ourselves,
where the most paper-thin parts of a personality
are louder than the noise we make,
discs forever locked within jeweled cases
forcing us to stare at the cover,
messages diluted in the stream of time
collected and bottled to be sold back to you
making any point you've ever made futile