shut out, pimpled and angry.
i quietly tied all my guts into knots.
gave up on trying to make them,
i figured it'd take them too long to look up and besides...

it was undeniably clear to me i don't know why
when every other part of life seemed locked behind shutters
i knew what worthless dregs we've always been.

lucked out and found my favorite records
lying in wait at the birmingham mall.
the songs that i heard,
the occasional book
were the only fun i ever took.
and i got on with making myself.
the trick is just making yourself.

but when they're parking their cars on your chest
you've still got a view of the summer sky
to make it hurt twice when your restless body
caves to its whims
and suddenly [bad word] to take flight...

three thousand miles north east
i left all my friends at the morning bus stop shaking their heads.
"what kind of life you dream of? you're allergic to love."
yes i know but i must say in my own defense
it's been undeniably dear to me, i don't know why
when every other part of life seemed locked behind shutters
i knew the worthless dregs we are,
the selfless, loving saints we are,
the melting, sliding dice we've always been.