count these days, feel like i ran a marathon,
|
more like a cigarette-a-thon, one three month day,
|
six more lanes, so much concrete seems irrational,
|
i've never felt more unnatural,
|
i watch exhaust blow,
|
i see that your dead behind your eyes,
|
all this convenience could never fill the hole that i've dug inside
|
real things seem hard to find,
|
armed to the teeth,
|
lets kill off every animal, be the only species not extinct,
|
then well have a feast,
|
people seem so strange its like they've all been zombified,
|
blurred street lights fill my crying eyes,
|
i grew some food from the ground,
|
one thing that made sense in a world
|
that seems so fucking upside down,
|
washed away this winders reoccuring theme,
|
of feeling lost and incomplete,
|
another winters under my belt strip malls they buried corn fields
|
alcohol is burying me, cut me off while my hearts still beating,
|
all these stupid games with their fancy names
|
they'll never make you free,
|
they'll make you numb they dont mean anything
|
|
-----------------
|
Under My Belt
|
| The Broadways |
