Swearing's a Sin

We're all real good at lying, mostly to ourselves, about what matters when it matters most. i've gotten caught up in the same bullshit as everyone one else, and i guess that's what really kills me. of course, there's no great tragedy to be found among a bunch of privileged kids deceived by rock n' roll and promo shots instead of office jobs and proper front yards, but still i feel uneasy at times. we're just all so fucking eager to believe that this matters, that something might-maybe it's the desperation that throws me off. sometimes i can't tell whether it's all in good fun or if it's something much worse and i want to scream, but i bite my tongue so much...

Fuck, this is not what we need

Everything is not all ok

We're all lying, and we have such a sad time together.

Each night, all guts and juice and ready to light out,

Kids trusting each other's bullshit.

No idea where we're going or what any arrows might mean

Someone should be sounding an alarm for no one to hear

We flaunt where we fail so viciously,

We wear flaws and our holes on our sleeves;

But only talk about some hearts.

We're all so goddamn eager and lost from the start

We need ''real straight talk about souls,''

Promises, kids with hearts of gold.

We're dying on a diet of lies

And i just want some black and white.

Some old fashioned chivalry,

A split second of honesty.

I'll admit, i get caught up in the same bullshit

I've gotten lost in syntax and sneakers,

I've broken promises and lied,

And sometimes i catch myself with someone else's words in my mouth

And i get an empty feeling deep down in my stomach.

But this competition is killing me:

I'm telling you, these boys with a shine in their teeth make me uneasy (god its killing me).

Thin kids, too freshly scrubbed, too pink faced

Always in long pants; their bony knees too much to bear

Listen to me:i can't tell you what i think.

This city is eating away at my soul, bronze and old.

With these kids: desperate, vapid, crass

We're out on the town and there's no going home

Making names and making time

Let me promise you one or two things:

If i could tell you the truth, i might

And if i could write a song you couldn't hear until i am gone,

A song where i said what i meant and what's wrong,

It would be quite different than this one

Trust me: i'm not just screaming because the music is loud.