They're for my mother; they always are.
I have a friend who I've provided so much fruition and devotion to
And he can't seem to call me on his days off
My irresponsibilities envelope the scenery
I've found myself left dismembered
Been reduced to dust on Easter afternoon
My mind's a clouded, distant fuck
With no lubrication on the withdrawal
Battered redemption has nothing to seek here
Slipped and slided to the destination
No name intact, faces bewildered
All planks devoured by a raging still
Cheeks unscolded in temperament
Resolution come down in a fiery plague
Unique onto itself it rose in disheveled fury
And "some boys tend to act like queens"
I wish to float out on this boat
Atop whatever dream I bloat
And someday find myself in tune
Which leads me to believe, I guess
I'd rather end this crooked mess
and time the flashing to the dim
Alone again-- yes we'll fish sand
One day I'll rise to sea level
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