Do I use too many words to say little or nothing at all?
And do I hold it over your head just to feel taller than you?
I've fucked over too many names I've spoken; now I sip karma
from a dirty sink, spitting it out at thoughts of smiles and syndication.
The glammed up dolls are gathered toward the front
looking for a taller glass to fill them up.
I like your tattoos the way I like my scars; hidden and with meaning
deeper than the cut. I like your intentions less obvious,
your eyes lifted to prominence, and your dreams taking center stage.
Wrap a blanket thesis around me, your best shot at simplification.
The acoustics are best at the back of the room.
Why would we ever want to move up?
I'll spin my way in clichés to come off just like everyone else;
to feel I belong in some way in this place, to glimpse into
these open biographies that read more like mysteries to me.
I can dream up worlds I fit, and for now I'm fine idle in observation.
The alcohol feels best on the back of the throat,
and you can bet it will be brought back up.
Shake your fist
in the air.
Let me know me you're with me.
There's no need for words.
