sisyphus2

High fever and slow rupture

that jazz breakdown will sound way better with an actual bassist in place of a loop, I swear

Tony Pajamas

your body has burned a hole in my carpet
one that, every so often, I try to pull you out of
when no one's looking I fall in myself
your body is a pert plum that has stained my carpet
one that wasn't as sweet as I thought it'd be
and now i'm just left here with a stain that keeps getting bigger

each night when you fall asleep there
sprawled out on my floor like a drink I spilled
if you just take your hands off my ears
I can hear you breathe and your heartbeat

if I listen closely I can hear my bones crack too
I can hear myself asking what to do

your body is a broken bottle that I've left on my carpet
one more bad decision, some cut skin, i'm drunk again
when no one's looking you can see the worst in me

you're not some hole to fill
or something that's just there to sink my teeth into
and you're not just something wrap my hands around
when I need to feel a bit better

you're the same scared child I am
and there's no shame in being afraid to sleep alone
because that's how we'll die i'm told

Honkey Magoo, Pickles, Satchimo the Trumpeteer

You Sound Like Rambo Without Any Teeth

there are scars
all over my body
because i can't
stop picking myself apart
i cover it up with tape and gauze
while ignoring the cause
digging deep into skin
letting out what i keep in
unraveling myself 
onto the floor
something is under my flesh
i can't stop picking myself apart
i cannot stop

i came undone that night
before all my friends' eyes
once a man, now a pile
and everyone just stared on

light one end of this wick
burn me at both ends
a fuse to a funeral pyre

this is it
i'm finally at the end
this is it
my own noose doesn't fit
i'm under
the axe, the glass, the roof, the gun, the thumb
this is it
i've finally come undone

even with all of my friends
can no one put me back together again?
a burning dead end, a pile of bandages
i'm at the end of my rope

What's the T Stand For (spencer)

I Wanna Tie Dye My Wife (spencer)

things can be always be better
as a function it's an infinitely closing gap
the further you follow it, the more you compress
you either get trapped or crushed to death
nothing's perfect
not the trees or math or your parents

there's a fine line between 
content and complacent
perfection is a sword in the side 
or a lover adjacent

close your eyes and pick your poison
sharpen your teeth or roll over in bed
you'll never do your best
this is as close as you'll get

but what's wrong with that?
what's wrong with being what you are?
or trying to be better?
what's wrong with being either?

nothing as long as you accept it
nothing as long as you don't regret it
nothing as long as you accept it
nothing as long as you don't regret it

stop looking for a pill or equation or a man with a cape
save your own goddamn day, save your own goddamn day

polymath