The city has sex with itself i suppose
as the concrete collides, the scenery grows
and the lonely once bandaged lay fully exposed
having exposed their wounds for each other
and there is a boy in a basement with a four track machine
he's been strumming and screaming all night, down there
the tape hiss will cover the words that he sings
but then they say it's better to bury your sadness
in a graveyard or garden that waits for the spring to awake from its sleep
and burst into green
and i've cried and you would think i would better for it
but the sadness just sleeps and it stays in your spine
for the rest of your life
and i've learned and you'd think i'd be something more now,
but it just goes to show it is not what you know
its what you were thinking at the time.
this feeling's familiar, i've been here before
in a kitchen this quiet i waited for a sign or just something
that might reassure me of anything close to meaning or motion
(with a reason to move)
i need something i want to be close to
and i scream, but i still don't know why i do it
because the sound never stays it just swells and decays
so what is the point?
why try to fight what is now so certain?
the truth is all that i am is a passing event that will be forgotten.