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Bluelight Crew
- Joined
- Jun 10, 2017
- Messages
- 4,122
Tell Me About The Place You Fled
It's the kind of place no one plans on visiting
and if you find yourself here, you'll say that
you've been here before
That something is familiar with the post-office,
the bums and the jingle jangle of the church bell
on the city hill, shifting like a vulture
The cops dazed by the weight of their badges
and everybody knows the game is rigged
but they appreciate the grift
Every morning despair rolls in like a fog
as the drunks leave the bars, and wet hungry eyes
roam the streets, looking to feed
It's the kind of place where the kids are measured
by the violence and war they can bring
And they grow up to be muscle and mayhem, nurses
and moms, junkies, jailbirds and third generation
gas station clerks
The reverend changes his sermon once every decade
and routinely skims off the collection to finance
his personal vices and crusades
God is only alive between 10:30AM and 11:30AM
on Sundays, when the pockets of the parish
bulge with sins and secrets and prayers, for a tide
that never comes
It's the kind of place you leave when no one is looking,
carrying your memories and wishes
like a basket of curses
Years later you might feel at home, somewhere else,
some place new and maybe you fall in love,
or something less cruel
Maybe you learn how to pretend to be happy,
still carrying that basket of curses and broken silly dreams
Because you realized early that you can't reach the stars
and you can't blot them out either, love
So what else are you supposed to do
to silence the past?
It's the kind of place no one plans on visiting
and if you find yourself here, you'll say that
you've been here before
That something is familiar with the post-office,
the bums and the jingle jangle of the church bell
on the city hill, shifting like a vulture
The cops dazed by the weight of their badges
and everybody knows the game is rigged
but they appreciate the grift
Every morning despair rolls in like a fog
as the drunks leave the bars, and wet hungry eyes
roam the streets, looking to feed
It's the kind of place where the kids are measured
by the violence and war they can bring
And they grow up to be muscle and mayhem, nurses
and moms, junkies, jailbirds and third generation
gas station clerks
The reverend changes his sermon once every decade
and routinely skims off the collection to finance
his personal vices and crusades
God is only alive between 10:30AM and 11:30AM
on Sundays, when the pockets of the parish
bulge with sins and secrets and prayers, for a tide
that never comes
It's the kind of place you leave when no one is looking,
carrying your memories and wishes
like a basket of curses
Years later you might feel at home, somewhere else,
some place new and maybe you fall in love,
or something less cruel
Maybe you learn how to pretend to be happy,
still carrying that basket of curses and broken silly dreams
Because you realized early that you can't reach the stars
and you can't blot them out either, love
So what else are you supposed to do
to silence the past?
