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i'm not who, with my eyes from stage, i claim to be,i've only cradled death in my own ending,flesh from far off and abstracted litcandle wick flickeringand when a thing starts finishing around me,i faint or fake a moustache, an accent, or flee,in fear my expired license be pulled by sheer proximityfact: the poseur in the bowler gets shot first,thinks he's the shit cause he can spit and curse,actin' brash and flashin' a pistol that squirts,scowling, and shouting, "shall we dance?"should our heroes hands be holding this blackest purse?mom, am i failing or worse?mom, am i failing?what should these earnest hands be holding?still sportin' my ex-girlfriend's dead ex-boyfriend's boxers,i wanna operate from a base of hunger,no longer be ashamed and hide mytears in shower water while i lather for pleasurei wanna speak at an intimate decibelwith the precision of an infinite decimal,Letras de cancionesto listen up and send back a true echoof something forever felt but never heardi want that sharpened steel of truth in every wordthe small fry in the bow tie dies first,acting wild like the spirit of god moving after church,faking he's hard like he's packed down dirt,already, and yelling, "be my guest"should our heroes hands be holding this blackest purse?mom, am i failing or worse?mom, am i failing?what should these earnest hands be holding?should our heroes hands be holding this blackest purse?mom, am i failing or worse?mom, am i failing?what should these earnest hands be holding? From Letras Mania