So here we are now, in a brand new hell
blazes shining brightly, stealing the glimmer
from our eyes in a brand new way.
I this evolution, or just a new flavor of nowhere?
So hard to tell the difference between
torture and growth these gray days,
between firm ground and sinking.
But I was given wings before.
Still so conflicted, maladjusted and confused,
still an isolationist, still hate creationists,
still bitter and obstuse, oscillating between
`where there's a will there's a way' and
`to hell with it, what's the use?'
There's the swamp, the flood,
the hurricane and the fire
to tend to, to defeat,
to work through.
Still negative pessimists suffering
from our own personal nihilism, trying
to master optomism and determination.
Gray fading to black and back again.
Am I moving forward or just sideways?
It's got to be better than backwards,
and any movement beats the motionless,
I suppose.
But I was given wings before.
Songs from youth said to row gently down the stream,
but it's hard to do when your caught in the rapids,
constantly sinking, constantly thinking it might
end in some gracefull mess, like a ship wreck,
or the falls might be just up ahead, but no such luck,
just never-ending-states of fuck this and what the fuck.
But I was given wings before
I rose up and I looked down
the swamp, it was an ink spot
the flood, it was a puddle
the hurricane, a light wind upon my cheek
the fire but a dim point of light...
Let me fly again, let me rise again,
I can trancend this pointess,
self-inflicted suffering.
blazes shining brightly, stealing the glimmer
from our eyes in a brand new way.
I this evolution, or just a new flavor of nowhere?
So hard to tell the difference between
torture and growth these gray days,
between firm ground and sinking.
But I was given wings before.
Still so conflicted, maladjusted and confused,
still an isolationist, still hate creationists,
still bitter and obstuse, oscillating between
`where there's a will there's a way' and
`to hell with it, what's the use?'
There's the swamp, the flood,
the hurricane and the fire
to tend to, to defeat,
to work through.
Still negative pessimists suffering
from our own personal nihilism, trying
to master optomism and determination.
Gray fading to black and back again.
Am I moving forward or just sideways?
It's got to be better than backwards,
and any movement beats the motionless,
I suppose.
But I was given wings before.
Songs from youth said to row gently down the stream,
but it's hard to do when your caught in the rapids,
constantly sinking, constantly thinking it might
end in some gracefull mess, like a ship wreck,
or the falls might be just up ahead, but no such luck,
just never-ending-states of fuck this and what the fuck.
But I was given wings before
I rose up and I looked down
the swamp, it was an ink spot
the flood, it was a puddle
the hurricane, a light wind upon my cheek
the fire but a dim point of light...
Let me fly again, let me rise again,
I can trancend this pointess,
self-inflicted suffering.
