my own satirical view of leftover life |
"I'm listed on "Invalid Item" !" How empty is your soul... Let's take a stroll to the knoll by the sewage line-- Ain't that fine? Can you tell me what it is that makes you wake up in the morning? Must be the putrid smell of grease and fat burning next door. Don't it make you just adore the morn? I bet it's the yelling, screaming, stomping, you hear from the love nest upstairs that makes you wanna just jump for joy. Boy, is that great! It's just gotta be the smell of vomit leftover from the night before. Before... Before you thought that drugs were bad --before you took that one last drag. Before you knew it was wrong --before you looked up and noticed your stash was gone. Before a gun scared you to death --before you cocked that trigger and she took that one last breath. Go ahead, pull the trigger... Blank. Blank. Blank. That's right, blank it out... Blanket out your soul. How empty is your soul... Let's take a stroll down to the knoll right over there by that sewage line-- Ain't that fine? Tell me, what makes you wake up in the morning? I guess it's the screeching of tires right before that wreck. You know, the one you hear about on the news, the one where all those people died. Did you know someone on that highway, in one of those cars? Or was it a mirage to you? Or an omen, of what could have been? Maybe it didn't matter, maybe. Maybe... Nothing else matters-- until your sister flies out the window from the carseat next to you and lands in the lap of the drunken driver who caused that wreck. That'll make you buckle up, right? How empty is your soul... Let's take one last stroll down to the knoll by the sewage line-- Ain't that fine? How about the sound of bacon sizzling in the frying pan, the sweet smell of cinnamon rolls baking in the oven. And you gallop down stairs to see Dad pouring another cold one down that big-thick-throat. Turning, he sees you, tears rolling down your cheeks; or are they his own-- No one can tell. Mom left so long ago you forget to anticipate the doorbell. Before you, a gun. Behind you, a vague memory of the happiness someone once spoke of, or... was it a dream? Before you, a gun. Cock it back slowly. Shh... Don't let the neighbors hear. No, I know. It's the smell of that beautiful, warm bubbly. Just a few more seconds... Ouch! Don't let the spoon burn you. Fire makes metal hot, remember? Remember... oooh, yeah... remember that feeling... courses through your veins, allows you to forget. Remember to forget that nothing else matters. Before you thought that drugs were bad... Before you, a gun. Blank. Blank. Blank. I hope the neighbors hear. |