Floating towards the igniting melodies;
I stand, perspiring, in a pit of nobodies
Unlike my fellows, I do not swing from rage
This scene is not my key to escape.
My mentality traces pictures of happiness,
I perceive the words to such a progress
An awakening, like the vampires after sleep
A rare smile at a common funeral.
Sooth not, my soul, the lyrics do not do
What a Paris supermodel feels when she’s weightless
An oxymoronic happiness of a stereotyped lie
As an outsider, I bear the truth of the soul.
Yet the pots and pans of the rock scene,
Tickle a seed in a plantation void
I am stubborn, numbness, is what I am
But the windows bare more than a pupil.
These rhythmic drums seem to dim the voice
Guitars are cordless and insignificant;
A fusion of feelings inflate hastily
Yet, upon the last drum’s beat, they die.
