Rushing At Ends

We toss words around like whispers to be dramatic.

Lace it through our language, pass on through our ears, ''we're on our way out.''

Kids making jokes and stepping on cracks, they swear

We toss this word around like a whisper...

(until it explodes like a grenade).

Suicide is a fucking myth

It's always a genocide:

Explodes in homes, leaves shaky walls.

Takes out everyone who's ever breathed a breath or shared a day

Clips them off at the knees; organs seize.

They're losing blood and not making any sense...

So now everyone sits in the room

Full of too many tired kids

Too few meaningful words,

And a sun that never seemed so cold.

And the scariest picture isn't the corpse

But the shell of a family

Still living, half hung.

Sitting in back i can feel my ribs popping one by one,

Digging into my lungs like wooden daggers,

Rough and broken off by kids with vampires hot on their heels.

I can feel my ribs

Maybe his piping was weak:

The blood pushed too damn hard

The heart kept its own rhythm

Like a sweet souled mad jazzman

But he broke the song

He broke the song with an off time improv and now there's nothing.

There's nothing but we're screaming, screaming like this can do something

Like there's something in songs that rings truer and louder...

But there's nothing.

And we're screaming like this will do something,

Like these songs

Can stick in your skull longer than death, but they can't

No they can't and they wont pump through your veins truer than death.

And i don't know what's left

And i'll sing these words, they're not doing shit

This song is all lies and i'll keep screaming like words help

They can't.

I quit.