Destination: destitution
Play a tune some
Rest in peace, son
Reservation for reclamation
Collective nations
To fade away, then
We’re all
One hundred percent on fire
Just burning our way
And I was blinded, so now I see
The only presence I give off is as an absentee
Your only problems arose exactly when you chose
To walk an artificial path of positivity
And I don’t wanna see ya wanna win some over
With your bitter onomatopoeia freedom closer
Cuz who can do that voodoo that you say only you can do so well
Motherfucker, you’re just a rather soulful but still empty shell
Because you only mimic an otherwise all-too-actual hell
And you don’t even do that much nearly as well as
You do the voodoo that you still hope will help you find a truer self
But it’s still just a chemical spell
Never feels as good as when it’s somebody else
Tugging away at all your stubborn little pieces of hell
And what else is there?
Another method to slowly impair your own ingrown judgments
Of everyone else
You’re letting go of all your whistles and bells now
So listen to know-how
There’s nothing to find out
As you’re
Slowly burning down your shackling firehouse
And you’re
Slowly blowing out the smoke right through your still empty mouth
And in your beautiful daze, you turn your fiery gaze
Upon the intending hands of every enforcing man
Of those so devout to cure you
And still yet to suffer the doubt from within you
And hey teachers leave us motherfucking children to learn
We don’t need your water let that motherfucker to yearn
We don’t need your badges, ring of fire, burn baby burn
And all your false fear and fake fright lives on in your empty urn
Lives on in your empty urn
We’re all one hundred percent on fire
The boiling ringing of the sky’s return
Lives on in your empty urn
As flames shred your share in what the mantra calls right
Only you can stamp out your own potential for light
And I can’t
Seem to kick the urge to prescribe
To the irremediable
And I can’t
Let go of my need to take back
What is always irredeemable
And I can’t
Draw any closure on my need to describe
What resists all forms of portrayal
I am guiltlessly unable
To evolve beyond my faded fable
To satisfy my theoretical failure
I will never please the vengeful ghosts of a burnt out savior
Because in my head
When all my ghosts are dead
And every women and men
When all our ghosts are dead
Then
We shall stand upon them