It seems like we communicate through stories
So I wrote a thousand essays about standing beside myself, all in my head,
I counted every leave of a thousand trees, all in my sleep,
Drew a thousand pictures of the whale inside my head that’s weighing me down,
All in one blink, nothing changed.
Halfway to depression I ran out of breath, opened up my ribcage
And let Goya’s nightmares eat my insides out until they ate their fill
Despite all I just couldn’t unravel this knot inside my chest.
Licking wounds and trophy scars, useless idols, unemployed gods,
All my pretentious and quite predictable wannabe-poetry won’t help me,
Speechless, fumbling for words, to say what we mean and mean what we say.
So keep your hands where I can see them (this is a robbery).
This show of scars is over (don’t even try to call for help).
Now empty your remote controls,
I’m collecting batteries for my flashlight at the end of the tunnel.
Hand them over, nice and slow, no use losing any sleep about it,
Because rewind buttons don’t seem to work and “fast forward” is useless anyway
(Don’t play the hero, keep your hands where I can see them and) count to 1983 and I’ll be gone.
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