The Corpses Of Our Motivations

Catching up in the basement that I call home.
Dismantled discussions on a piss-soaked telephone.
I'm all grown up.
I've thrown up theses feelings lots before.
You're sitting the park while I'm staring at the door.
I've waterlogged and choked.
Enough self-mutilation.
One hundred beers another week ensconced in yellow smoke.
I'm no devil, I just have these demons keeping me awake,
pushing at my go-leg, laughing at cut brakes.
The corpse of my motivation hangs in the closet next to skeletons
and bloody vampire fangs.
Sleep all day, drink the night away.
It's another step closer to the comfort of the grave.
This coffin's full of nail and pipe and glass,
rotting under yellow growing grass.
Five in the chamber and flying through the air.
I've tied my blind fold tightly, I'm cutting my air.
I'm a bullet and a target, and I'm drenched splattered blood.
I've my lesson once, but once isn't enough.
So dry your hand, wash 'em clean of me.
Wave your victor's flay on a pile of debris because when you die a
hero, you die like a slave.
I'd rather die to see it change than live and watch it stay where the
corpses of our motivations hang on the gallows over-ripe with like colostomy
bags (pie anyone?)
there's party in the woods and a dance in the city streets and a rumble down
the avenue of fifty thousand stomping feet.
And the fire is getting high igniting sweaty powdered brews. And he hasn't
saved you yet, he isn't gonna save you now, :and you're more than on the day
that we first met.
My angel of the not yet buried dead.