Why do you consist to be…
Nothing more, nothing more.
Nothing less, nothing less.
Than a wasted breath.
I’m living in my sheets,
Tossing and turning over a new leaf.

Believe me.
Sicker than dank minds sold short on a dream.
What do you believe in?
Saturated, cold sweats.
Late nights spent broken and bent.

Who do you believe?
Believe me.

On top of the world till it’s time to close.
Sixteen hours a day spent at home alone.
Sing a song of sorrow for the souls of tomorrow.
Hum along with regret, cold breathes on warm windows.

I’ve seen myself falling through shattered glass.
Opening nights “final act”.
Cancel the encore, it’s all part of the plan.
Season tickets snatched from the palm of your hand.

Who do you believe in?
Who do you believe in?

I’ll-advised on good advice.
Between wakefulness and sleep.
I’d stand up for myself
If it weren’t for these sheets.

I’ve seen myself falling through the glass.
Opening nights final act.
Believe in this.

Everything I’ve known has faded away gradually over the days, I’ve grown accustom to a comfortable numb.
Dumbed down, strung high some times.
Light a match, set it in wax.
bring out your dead like it was Sunday Mass.
Collective calm, distracted minds.

I’ve got mine.

Bring out your dead, open your head.
Let the murder feed on the death instead.
I’m burning notes I wrote years ago.
Eating my words till I overflow.
I’m numb, dumb, dishing out my cum.
I’m an asshole to those that show me freedom.

Calm down.
Get fucked.
Let me focus on love.

Oh, how I wish I would let myself drift, through the navy blue covers into navy blue waters.

The stale stench of “fresh air” this morning.
Every morning, inflating my winded lungs, as if I had forgot how to whilst I slept.

Running on reserve, my mental petrol meter is at an all time low.
A $20 buck breakfast with a side of Tomorrow will do wonders.

Yet there’s no time for that now, lunch is the new breakfast, haven’t you heard?

Not all of the ambient music could sooth me, nor could it throw me back.
So why do I listen to it?

I am a docile nation.
I am my minimum wage on a fortnightly pay.

It’s only after half an hour that I realise I must have broken a string, a record or something.

Breath. Wait. Repeat.

It’s as if my windows have been lined with lead, dragging me down deeper and deeper and deeper into the sand.

Begin:

Out the door, down the line I run for the midnight train.
“follow my voice” she said.
“into the sea” she said.
“where masses recall what it’s like to be free again.”

All of these things we did, all of this seemed legit, yet I’m too lost in myself to dream instead.

Spun like a widows web who’s fucked up on wealth.
Every kid’s cashing in on the trust fund of health.
Good luck with the years and god speed to us all.
Rest assured that we’re dreaming ‘cause lord knows us so well.

Nighttime Daylight.
Fin.