We toss words around like whispers to be dramatic.
Lace it through our language, pass on through our ears, ''we're on our way out.''
Kids making jokes and stepping on cracks, they swear
We toss this word around like a whisper...
(until it explodes like a grenade).

Suicide is a fucking myth
It's always a genocide:
Explodes in homes, leaves shaky walls.
Takes out everyone who's ever breathed a breath or shared a day
Clips them off at the knees; organs seize.
They're losing blood and not making any sense...

So now everyone sits in the room
Full of too many tired kids
Too few meaningful words,
And a sun that never seemed so cold.

And the scariest picture isn't the corpse
But the shell of a family
Still living, half hung.

Sitting in back i can feel my ribs popping one by one,
Digging into my lungs like wooden daggers,
Rough and broken off by kids with vampires hot on their heels.
I can feel my ribs

Maybe his piping was weak:
The blood pushed too damn hard
The heart kept its own rhythm
Like a sweet souled mad jazzman

But he broke the song
He broke the song with an off time improv and now there's nothing.
There's nothing but we're screaming, screaming like this can do something
Like there's something in songs that rings truer and louder...

But there's nothing.
And we're screaming like this will do something,

Like these songs
Can stick in your skull longer than death, but they can't
No they can't and they wont pump through your veins truer than death.
And i don't know what's left
And i'll sing these words, they're not doing shit
This song is all lies and i'll keep screaming like words help

They can't.
I quit.