All the beautiful songs were written by someone else, in a home studio in a forest in a big white room with perfect beautiful acoustics and that afflicts, and, pains, me, a little, but only just that, a little, can we ever free ourselves from this perfect mess of sound and color, like a warm and tide, crush and swell, not look at the page while we type, but hear the weeping like a newborn day
and realize it's been too long since last we slept, and find ourselves constantly pounding fists against the walls of impenetrable enlightening, curses ringing out and mingling among the new snowfall, but never heard.
I must be dreaming, or unhappily awake, afraid to sleep, to miss a single moment of my own indulgence
because it's not pleasure but fear that drives these lusts and cravings of mine, the overwhelming seduction of disgrace
and the feeling of an empty bank account, scared of looking inside or outside and realizing you've trusted all the wrong people all your life
like they'd ever put themselves on the line for you
but none of them actually care, do they
you just buy them in, like they're that easy, like you can put a dollar sign next to someone's number
and call it quits, right?
That's all they need
and why you always have to pretend that it's yours that you have it in spades
your secret shame that you are poor
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