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I think we're okay here
03:25
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Finding Comfort, wherever home hasn't grown cold
progression chimes lack of reason, i've got nowhere to go
now speak of eternity, with no words that mean heave
and if life became too utilitarian, i only owe an apology to that dumbfuck kid
overwhelming that is, i hope i'm too tough to be tired
if that doesn't make me special it sure as hell makes me modern
now leave the old to their tricks, i've got time
i've told myself that i've got time
i suppose i'm running out of times to tell myself that i've got time
scary as that is i don't have anywhere else to go
maybe hermitage, maybe submission, maybe off myself some romantic way
i've planted my chrysanthemums in a line, but shelters made of porcelain and broken glass
you hate me when you're tired, i hate me when i'm bored, i hate me when i'm bored and scared and i hate me when it's fresh
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how afraid does one have to become?
scared enough to begin waking up earlier?
Tired enough to shed a birds nest sweater? paint stained, ugly grey, a hand-me-down hiding place
admittedly too tired of life, admittedly won't change that myself, so now like my entire generation, i'll waste borrowed time, and with that hesitation wonder if i'm here because of fences like my crooked teeth line streets of empty lots, two for every dying business, either mad to grow bad grass, or derelict buildings to be squatted, or libraries of old fools.
here for one of those two paths?
or here for the headache that that may cause?
room like a cell, now this is ours, we'll shed the same, you are mine, i wan to hear it.
the time you resolved you weren't strong enough, and the better time you resolved you were, i've got the same, i am yours.
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Looming frustrations, no smoke October
no snow falling in streetlamps, no winter to rest in weather
scrape your hand to blood on the pavement, stand in solidarity with an overworked father
whose father was a painter, whose father was a painter, it's only time to take up the family trade
dig graves, by the sundial, in your grandmothers english garden, for dying sons of sailors, under night blue air
time always leaves behind a place less cruel
time always leaves behind a place less afraid
time always leaves behind a place less ashamed
was your grandmother from the country? and your grandfather from the docks?
now you're born to blood you're afraid of, unwanting, of anything
save the sam snow where your feet crushed and you learned to love and know life weight
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corrvus Simi Valley, California
Booking, questions, hate mail etc: email or 805 624 9053
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