In sweet strained rapture you sun yourself stoned You click your heels when you wanna try to go home. Invisible anti-matter eats away at your time. You snap your fingers then you try and stop on a dime. The sunburned schizophrenic says he's medium-well in his boxed-in technicolor lonely hell. The endless bottleneck of his personal space is what keeps his brain flashing while he's walkin' in place. Your broken record goes around again. You never hear it because it blends right in. You watch the needle as it wears to a stop. You'll lay down to try and die, if you can find the right spot. (And it's once again this time around the imaginary dot...) Your psycho-babble chisels into your chest. You wear you heart just like a bulletproof vest Inside the closet is just like a cave. You always spend way more than you ever save. (And it's once again this time around the stationary wave...)
Written by: P.R.Martin
Submitted by: Sacchrone on April 15, 2019
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