1. |
Inspiration Point
02:23
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I serpentined up to the point,
Determined to leave my mark.
Unveil some avail, sessile pine–
I'm burning my eyes in your bark.
It's hopeless, the antics
Of English Romantics
Birthed this undying maxim
In an effortless dream.
I yearned for the power of the heath,
But it gave me the dirt of the wood.
Give me a line, drifting leaf.
Tell me a tale of my childhood.
It's hopeless, the antics
Of English Romantics
Birthed this undying maxim
In an effortless dream.
I've hiked to this zenith
To summon a genius
But all that it's brought me to know
Is a morsel of snow.
(I see snow.)
Wow, it's white and snowy.
(I see a lake.)
Gosh, it's blue and flowy.
(I see clouds.)
Gee, they're fluffy and graying.
(I see trees.)
Cool, they're green and swaying.
(I see rocks.)
Nice, they're round and lumpy.
(I see a cliff.)
Damn, it's sheer and bumpy.
(I see dirt.)
Wait, it's more like gravel.
(I see birds.)
O'er the lake they travel.
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2. |
Storm
04:29
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You stand alone, feet submerged in pink poppies,
Razor sharp weeds crafting slits along your sore feet.
You’re being swallowed, swallowed up by your indigo lies.
Since this tempest began, you
Undressed and up and ran, ran, ran.
Clatter on the windowpane.
Where am I to go?
Where am I to go?
Patter from the sewage drain.
Where am I to go?
Where am I to go?
Clatter on the windowpane.
Where am I to go?
Where am I to go?
Patter from the sewage drain.
Where am I to go?
Rusted gates blockade to keep you in your sorry place;
A steady hold on your ankles and white masks upon your faces
Contain your disdain for the sky—
Hide from the storm inside, inside.
Clatter on the windowpane.
Where am I to go?
Where am I to go?
Patter from the sewage drain.
Where am I to go?
Where am I to go?
Clatter on the windowpane.
Where am I to go?
Where am I to go?
Patter from the sewage drain.
Where am I to go?
Clatter on the windowpane.
Where am I to go?
Where am I to go?
Patter from the sewage drain.
Where am I to go?
Where am I to go?
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3. |
Pagan Dance
04:02
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Why does everything seem so empty?
How am I supposed to win?
Sticky thumbprints smear my shadow
And wipe away my civil sin.
Surgeon fates split the fibered gates
And made
(A fatal laceration)
To see which fate of the
Triumvirate would win
(The game of Operation).
I’m trying to do my pagan dance
And not become the slave of circumstance.
I’m trying to do my pagan dance.
Eager hands, they’re trying to grab me
And pull me under blackened lakes,
But I’ll keep on my rusted chain mail
To lock away those fatal mistakes.
Surgeon fates split the fibered gates
And made
(A fatal laceration)
To see which fate of the
Triumvirate would win
(The game of Operation).
I’m trying to do my pagan dance
And not become the slave of circumstance.
I’m trying to do my pagan dance.
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Easemont Los Angeles, California
High school band with that "mediocre musicians that hate each other but can't break up because it would hurt their already underwhelming income" sound.
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