There is something.
Here.
There is a sidewalk on my forehead.
I am thorns formed on necks of orchids
I'm chorus effects and born-again's
I am nothing more than aborted chords,
Dormant, abhorrent to the core and
I can’t even feel the four’s anymore.
I'm knocked up with lava rocks,
Pregnant with cobblestones.
The soldered bones of that copper gold
Splinter in this coddled cold.
Some say I’ve lost my edge.
Now those may just be the voices
But fuck ‘em
I’m just biding time trying to regain my poise
And when I finally come to rise out of this noise
Y’all won’t even spot the arrival.
And he drinks too much
And you know he bleeds too much
And we all know he just fucking thinks too much
But He can’t hear you no more
Your static click is just far too thick
He’s locked up the attic
So for now keep taking extract
From abstract.
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