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song to even further deepen the emotional burden, of where this emerged
i’ll start this off by saying i will admit the truth, im ungrateful for that of which i have, this unquenchable itching i have towards the pondering of my own tragic life
i think i’m some sort of martyr, some scapegoat
sent out into the wilderness, tainted by sin not of my own doing
some tragic poet, a innocent soul driven into the very wastes and landfills
Im not the protagonist of anything other than my life, surely had i been the centerpiece of a book or movie
It would’ve been a tragedy
My soul is clean and pure, innocent and virgin.
The young affluent handsome intelligent athletic sensitive boy has nowhere to go
for everywhere he may go all he will see is a torn wasteland,
a landfill ridden with corpses,
corpses which do not decay,
corpses that may walk,
may talk,
may blink,
may smile,
may even have a heartbeat should you press your ear against their chest
yet all he sees are corpses, the precious boy is alone, he is lonely, and he is aware of this
so the precious young boy searches and searches, only to be mistaken yet he dig through piles of corpses and cadavers
only to be mistaken, for he pour his soul out, for he put a piece of himself in the fire, maybe the smoke will bring another to thyself
the precious boy is sad and sullen, as the puzzle piece so intricately carved may not have a pair, for the machine might’ve broken or for his union be far away he may not find it,
even if the young boy searches countless days and countless nights
countless springs
countless summers
countless autumns
countless winters
he may not be successful even then, the precious boy knows this yet he hopes,
the young boy hopes and dreams
i’ll start this off by saying i will admit the truth, im ungrateful for that of which i have, this unquenchable itching i have towards the pondering of my own tragic life
i think i’m some sort of martyr, some scapegoat
sent out into the wilderness, tainted by sin not of my own doing
some tragic poet, a innocent soul driven into the very wastes and landfills
Im not the protagonist of anything other than my life, surely had i been the centerpiece of a book or movie
It would’ve been a tragedy
My soul is clean and pure, innocent and virgin.
The young affluent handsome intelligent athletic sensitive boy has nowhere to go
for everywhere he may go all he will see is a torn wasteland,
a landfill ridden with corpses,
corpses which do not decay,
corpses that may walk,
may talk,
may blink,
may smile,
may even have a heartbeat should you press your ear against their chest
yet all he sees are corpses, the precious boy is alone, he is lonely, and he is aware of this
so the precious young boy searches and searches, only to be mistaken yet he dig through piles of corpses and cadavers
only to be mistaken, for he pour his soul out, for he put a piece of himself in the fire, maybe the smoke will bring another to thyself
the precious boy is sad and sullen, as the puzzle piece so intricately carved may not have a pair, for the machine might’ve broken or for his union be far away he may not find it,
even if the young boy searches countless days and countless nights
countless springs
countless summers
countless autumns
countless winters
he may not be successful even then, the precious boy knows this yet he hopes,
the young boy hopes and dreams
