The city has sex with itself I suppose
as the concrete collides, while the scenery grows,
and the lonely once bandaged lay fully exposed
having undressed their wounds for each other.
And there's a boy in a basement with a four-track machine,
he's been strumming and screaming all night, down there.
The tape hiss will cover the words that he sings,
they say it's better to bury your sadness
in a graveyard or garden that waits for the spring to
awake from it's sleep and burst into green.
Well I've cried, and you'd think I'd be better for it
but the sadness just sleeps and it stays in my spine
for the rest of my life.
And I've learned and you'd think I'd be something more now
but it just goes to show it is not what you know
it is what you were thinking at the time.
This feeling's familiar, I've been here before.
In a kitchen this quiet I waited for a sign or
just something that might reassure me of
anything close to meaning or motion (with a reason to move).
I need something I want to be close to.
And I scream, but I still don't know why I do it,
because the sound never stays it just swells and decays,
so what is the point?
Why try to fight what is now so certain?
The truth is all that I am is a passing event that will be forgotten