industrious.

All my favorite shouters are in rehab. No more hitchhiked tours or basement shows.
No more bruised acoustics, or frantic howls.
So I guess I’m all alone now.

The ones left breathing play in plastic coliseums, but that’s only betrayal. I’ve never had that kind of money and I guess that’s what it’s all about. But now I won’t be at your show, and I hope you miss me but I know you won’t. I didn’t think it could ever cost me so much, getting my ass kicked to a punk song.

So fuck off. There’s no such thing as a sell-out and we’re all trying to survive.
I know the others have dried up and died.

We’ve all killed the music industry.

as you are.

It’s too easy to feel fucking terrible. And the way your moods swing, it’s always too much. Your brain goes on overload and all of a sudden, you can’t breath - sure as hell can’t sleep - and you’d give anything to just make it fucking stop. Your veins throb and you bring your bones to your temple, pounding; you’re all too aware of how the angles fit just right, how the edges of your mind become ever more blurred, fraying like old fabric.

This is your brain off drugs. This is your life, right here, in front of you.

And you’d like to shout, to destroy something - anything - but you won’t because you can’t and you’re frozen as you are, an image of anxious agony. You’re furious and weeping and thinking too fast to follow, because this is how you live, but it’s also how you die. You can’t handle it - you don’t know how to - and it’s not something you can fix, or even change. It’s you, as you are, and it’s always too fucking much.