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The Lawrence Arms
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Another Boring Story
Displacement, the basement, isolation cemented,
relented, six stairs down.
Naked bulb, tired lungs, tired eyes, crooked thumbs
not up but sideways for now.
The rise and fall and gentle drops,
precipitation never stops.
I pulled the clouds inside me and now it's raining again.
Cried in my sleep last night for the first time.
Dying while I live, living where we die.
Futility abounds six feet deep within the coffee grounds.
These ashtrays are volcanoes now.
Apartments burn in red and brown.
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Salt the earth and never grow.
Notice ashes look like snow.
Falling and just sitting there.
More trash than the county fair.
The smell of crowds, a burning nose,
a smell familiarly morose.
Half-assed attempt only to fail,
half-assed reflection ghostly pale,
you're waving while I disappear -
ashes cementing my fear...
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