Truthfully never have I ever
Come across thoughts so morosely obscene
As the slow ebbing mute realisation
That nothing's never not going to be seen.
As much as I look for worth
In the things I do and I say,
A dishonest sorrow is held in my backpack,
And it's dying for it all to die away.
Is service the only thing for it?
Give my deaths and my loves; loving martyrs.
Pass some spark along, few more smiles and I'm gone,
A zipper on my back, like catharsis?
So, am I just living till death?
Or am I just living to die?
Is that a depressional fixation?
If so, why don't I just cry?
Yeah, why do I get up in the morning?
If all I've gotta do is survive?
And yes maybe there is a God
After death, and I must prepare it.
How on earth am I supposed to know,
If I aint ever been there yet?
So then, do I become God?
And make my afterlife now?
I practise and rehearse every moment
For that chance I need to know how.
So just once I don't slip and fall,
So for once, the bruise don't need healing,
So there's energy and purpose to this,
And I can gift back these gifts I've been stealing.
