Gotta do it somehow...

I can feel it being suppressed
those dark sparks shocking through
gray, having something to say, speaking of
those certain little things that can
easily turn into something more dramatized
maybe even a cinematic display of madness
but it's really not that serious
because when really, what is it?

Just some form of anxiety which seeks out
anything that can bring the ship down
(I'm sorry my captain) but this is no Titanic,
this is no disaster, it's just a very inconvenient
scratch along the side, making it look less pretty
but she still fucking runs, so what?

Though at times, something still feels a little wrong
but maybe that is only because, well, to be honest,
things are obviously very different from those days
when you went to bed and you always found some way
to make it an actual experience,
some sort of REM event
that the world should have witnessed, but no one else's
eyes are capable of seeing what lies behind those eyelids

And it's just a god damn shame
when you take that good ol' bus
which is always 3 minutes late
and you're the only kook with a dream
that could save millions (but at least
it saved yourself)

Salvation is never satisfying
when it's only you tasting the gold
melting in your mouth, stretching it out
to get a bigger bite, that was the plan
'till the decadence became cake sweet
now it's just too much

So now there is this responsibility
of looking on ahead to predict these
awkward catastrophes, though embarrassing
when you fail, you know that it was
a close enough call, and that means
you're getting some where with this shit
just not quite 100%, but still a shiny penny
so squeeze it like a lemon, get a cold glass
out of it and quench what ever cotton mouth
    you have, you deserve something at least