Tattered pockets, and spare change
just buying time to chase these clouds away
and every hour that he did drain left the bags under his eyes
and the bullets in his brain.
We can’t keep living in still frames.
Tear these pictures down, embrace this feeling.
The restlessness he can’t shake,
haunted by the hour glass and open graves.
Sometimes it takes some time to get rid of that bad taste.
It lingers on his tongue, for too long,
until he sings his song.
I won’t be home for long.
With packed bags and pacing lungs
these new scars will prove you wrong.
I’m alive when the night hits, smashed open wide
until the dawn.
From the palms of my hands
I can feel these walls are real
and this shrinking ceiling informs me that
we’ll all be gone someday
I know we can find hope in the exits,
I feel it as these notes choke up my fear.
I heard we’re all drowning in the waves,
but it’s Friday night and tonight we dance for graves.
Tonight we dance for graves.