Author Information
[working title]
the irony of aptness
is a stifling conjugation
living in so far as sleeping
as cadavers and stiff derelicts
abrasions and contusions
that adorn our tiny vessels
with our memorandums memorized
through regiments of cloth we've stitched
a matchbook holding unordained potential
to strike a sergeant swarm of savvy saturation
and yet we don't even seem to breathe.
so lets burn these bridges we've built
they only take us to those things we loathe
out of date and immature passages to problems
we don't need no roads to drive on
we can fly away from here
riding on the wings of our steep ambitions
i will show you how to see
the things you cannot seem to grasp
a weightless dance behind your stubborn mask
a glass that’s full of confidence
that you will drink and speak of no fears
or pretentious portraits of self-doubt.
just breathe in me if you wish
to end your suffocation
we don't need the static cling
of fruitless isolation
behind us lay the sordid ruins
of boredom and incompetence
i am only patiently awaiting
to know that you're convinced.
