Define life as a paperback.
It doesn't bother me.
Just cause it's written don't make it fact.
I guess my character lives a lie.
because the version I see
is reading thinner than the page.
I'm worried that it's just
reheated blues in a microwave.
Maybe my joy's too much
to be
contained.
I find life in this plastic bag.
It doesn't matter to me.
Brain's melted, spirit's back.
And if I ever get out alive
the biggest problem I see
is giving my ghost the pink slip.
I'm worried that it's just
reheated blues in a microwave.
And if it's all been done
why even bother to create?
Maybe my joy's too much
to be
contained.
If my blood won't boil,
tell my friends I'm terrified of soil.
If my blood starts to curdle,
tell my mom I'd never desert her.
Tell my mom, please tell my mother.
Tell my friends, please tell my friends.
