Pass the junkies on the bottom of ‘Wickedon'
Art can make you brave, dumb, or idiot
Catch a bullet for the authors of someday
Burn twice bright, last half as long
Her taste in boys I never understood
But her taste in girls is fine
As we walked out under streetlights and neon
The panic palpable, unable to avoid
We felt by proxy
We left with less
Debra Sighed;
"Cute boys look like their mothers"

Feeling disconnected as we walk to ‘Luna Sea’
Air instead of wrists connected my arms
God in bursts and the devil in streaking profane
We’ll serve you when the "roll" kicks in
The fashion of independent uniforms
Such a bold look like everyone’s
Familiar motions some took for granted
All of which with tired, cold, needless eyes
We expect nothing
They brought it to us
Crude moments
Lost forever on crude film

Closed up inside the factory of sleeping
No platform for this subway of ideas
Smirking faces behind selfish conditions
Dyed purple draped over and in my mouth
Thick bass pulsing like heartbeats
Kneepads and light snapped in half to convey glow
Someone's Mother and some reckless acceleration
We saw minus zero
While tearing open
Tired words
Like everyone ever before you

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