1. |
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Scar Tissue.
Foible words on the palms of my hands. I can’t dismiss the dissidence that I withstand. All I see that makes me ill, turns inward and make me hate myself. I’m looking for a way out. Help me forget this doubt. Because I once knew a song that made me feel I belonged. If I remember right, I would sing it all night:
“This is the room, the start of it all.
Through childhood, through youth, I remember it all.”
Because there are worse things than distance. My remission: all the nights spent questioning my existence. Can I explain? Would you understand how it feels to love yourself with your right hand knowing it’s the closest you’ll get to bliss and not turning to slit wrists? I detest. There is too much repressed.
I lit 92 candles,
To repent for all I can't handle.
Through the ruins of what’s left inside this chest,
To the pain I can’t sustain from those dejected cum stains.
Fuck this pain.
A Former Self I Wish To Shed.
Losing reason, disappearing. I’ve lost already, interfering. Draining power, polarity. Seeking solace, sincerity.
Like leaves on a tree,
Just leave me be and I’ll be
The most beautiful thing you can see.
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2. |
Open Womb
01:00
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Bleeding heart beaten into the back of my skull. A former self withholding all I can’t recall. Now under the guise of those little pink pills, she says, “Distill this broken glass and rebuild.” I’m beginning to believe, there’s no fault in carrying the weaker half of this stain. I’m beginning to believe there’s more merit in the dirt and the leaves than there is in any human being.
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3. |
Cowboys and Indians
01:20
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Cowboys and Indians extinct
upon the cold hands
of Marlboro land.
Tip your waitress;
dress up like Gaddafi.
Halloween—
what a great day
to give up your life
and walk away.
I'm so sick of Crimson Ghost.
I'm so sick of Black Flag bars.
I'm so sick and tired
of feeling love lost
for a product.
For I am riding
with the skeletons
of one thousand dead
Cowboys and Indians.
Tell me what to believe in—
I have nothing left.
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4. |
Untitled-V
02:40
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You’re a visible ghost haunting basements and community halls. You’re an every second reminder of a person who picked a scab and wound up a corpse. Next these feelings channel forward through dead whispers and undrunk wine. As I lay down another unkept mend and cup my heart in my hands, trying to resuscitate all you suffocated in me. Next that crooning stainless steel, welcomes me... and the person that I used to be is muffled quietly. Two figures stumbled forward, as I begged for forgiveness from the person that I used to be. I was made to believe...
I was made to believe in being incomplete.
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Runaways Calgary, Alberta
We wrote some songs together when we were teenagers.
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