Bird In A Cage

Track Marks

Monsters I Can't See

I don't know what to do anymore.
"Everything I thought" has been thought before.
So if you sent me a message once, could you please resend?
I must have missed the call back when all my friends still came around.

Well the world's a great big ocean, I forgot how to swim.
And death's that long white staircase I wouldn't dare ascend.
I wish I had a million bucks--I'd buy your expectations, and I'd burn them up.
I'd give you every penny if you swore to never ask me what it is I plan on doing again.

Cold-change around the corner, itching like my skin.
I keep saying that I'm leaving but can't seem to say when.
Summer seems in no hurry to leave the midwest.
We both know we should be moving on, but we can't admit it.

I wish I had a million bucks--I'd buy myself a few more years to spend broke as fuck.
Give me a million more evenings with my best friends drinking on a back porch--laughing for the stupidest reasons--back when we were all we needed, and before we each started thinking: "Oh man, oh man. What the hell am I doing?"

Leaving (Part I)

One pulsing line tells me you're still alive,
and I'm trying to find the right words to speak.
One of these days, I'll watch the waves slow and pass;
I'll watch your iron-plated lungs go flat.

I can feel it in my bones:
we will not make it home
before the radial waves just capsize
and drown us.

I can hear it in my head:
what it's like to be dead--
how the blinking signal only defines us
when it ends.

What can I say? You've got a bomb for a heart,
and the ticking always kept me from sleep.
One of these days, I'll feel your frequency lapse;
I'll watch your copper-wire veins detach.

I can feel it in my bones:
we will not make it home
before the radiowaves just capsize
and drown us.

I can hear it in my head:
what it's like to be dead--
how the blinking signal only defines us
when it ends.

Flatline

Lay me down in a Spring-field (lie-di-lie),
O merciful, murderous Eye-in-the-Sky.
Did You bury this beautiful beast in my spine?
Show me Yours first, and then I’ll show You mine.

“That arrow knows where we are!” (har-di-har),
Punkdrunk screams from the back of the car.
Director: “You feel everything in you pull itself apart!”
Assembly: “Clutching our loins and our faith in the dark!”

You can rub mud in my eyes anytime,
but what if I find it’s a blessing to be blind?

Can’t we just get through the day, Molly Mae,
without wrecking our brains for something (w)hol(l)y to say?
Director: “All the altar boys have been felt up and aged!”
Assembly: “They took to the Blood and then forgot how to pra/ey!”

We all went out (lie-di-die, lie-di-did),
around the fourth round or maybe it were the sixth (?),
someone cried out, “O God!  I don’t exist!
I only just found out… could you give me a bit?”

You can turn my water into wine anytime;
anybody needs a drink when the crowd screams, crucify.

I wanna ask You so many things, but I know I don’t have much time.
I guess I just wanted to let You know you’re still on my mind…

all the time.

Assembly:
“Bury me in a shallow grave,
I’ll need my body again someday,
Leave my regrets in the ditches they made,
Forgive me for my useless name.”

Andrew Reeves's Album

Lay Me Down... (Part II)

So I'm free of your approval--
that bloody barbed fence that got in my way.
I'm free of your refusals--
of saying whatever I thought I had to say
to get your lips and your hips against mine
(or all else one more night where I got my way).

So I'm free of your endless beauty--
that river so deep I nearly drowned.
I think the count (the last time I checked)
is one too many times in the last six years now.

I guess I didn't wanna see you cry out your green eyes.
I guess I just wanted to remember your face
as it was shining in the midst of our grace and light
and not twisted by the pain of our goodbye.

So I'm free to this constant aging--
these days and sleepless nights on my own.
I'm free to this incessant pacing--
I'm always moving, but I've got no place to go.

Free

When you left West Virginia
we were saddling up to winter--
we were nailing up the boards on every sill.

And you tried not to think about it--
tried to count each shriven blessing--
tried to memorize the tree line on every hill.

But I was not a fool.
I knew that God could be too cruel--
that he takes what he has given twice as fast.
And I could not be cruel.
I knew that God was just a fool
who believed that we could resurrect the past.

Since you left West Virginia,
the world seems full of strangers.
And I spent three (no), four (no), five months
staying drunk and high.

I tried not to think about it--
tried to count each second passing
to remind myself, despite you, time still goes by.

I am not a fool.
I know the world can be so cruel--
that you get kicked twice as hard when you are down.
And I cannot be cruel.
I know the world is full of fools
who believe they were born to wear a crown.

When you left West Virginia,
it's like you packed my dreams up with you--
like you bagged up my last sense of love and light.

I try not to think about it--
try to fill each silent aching--
try to visualize the way you breathed at night.

But I am not a fool.
I know you can be too cruel--
that the day is brief before the night you cast.
And I cannot be cruel.
I know I am just a fool
who would give you anything before you
even had to ask.

West Virginia

If you say the word, I’ll steer toward the curb.
I swear, I’ll wrap this car around a tree.
I can’t sleep at night.
It’s like I’ve got no sense of time.
I only end up staring at the sky.

I start feeling nervous, 
and I wonder what’s the purpose 
of all these spinning rocks out in space.
I try hard to listen.
I pay very close attention,
but God never seems to speak to me.

What’s the point in staying on my knees

when we’re closer to death 
than we were the day before this
and only getting closer with the next?
My head won’t work right.
It’s like I’ve got no sense of time.
I wrote the book on how to lose a friend.

You start by getting nervous,
and you wonder what’s the purpose
if everything you love comes to an end.
You’ll try hard to listen.
Pay very close attention
because once you get a taste
you just can’t quit.

What’s the use in trying to resist?

We went out.
We got drunk.
We came home.
Called it love,
and in the morning 
it didn’t mean a thing.

What’s the point in staying on our knees?

How to Lose a Friend (Quarantine Bedroom Sessions)

You can tell your friends that I'm a piece of shit:
depressing, apathetic, and riddled with contempt.

You can leave this town, get your diamond ring,
and the man who might accompany it bended on one knee.

You see your aging body--
everyone is dying--
you're dying to(o)
get the hell out of Missouri,
as far as the highway could possibly
carry you.

But all I hear are clocks deep down in wombs that can't be stopped,
and wedding bells like alarms are ringing: "Kid, it's time to wake up."

And see your aging body--
man, every body's dying--
you have to die, too:
a basic lack of conviction,
stir in your addictions,
you know it's coming soon.

You can leave this town, find your fence and ring,
and the man who might accompany them can serve your endless "please."

I see my aging body--
man, every one is dying--
I'm gonna die so soon.
I'll finally be free of Missouri
and all these chains that bound me
to her and you.

you can tell your friends...

Andrew Scott Reeves is a musician and songwriter living in Kansas City, MO.

august, inland

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