Split
02-08-2013, 05:14 AM
[not my best work, just my latest... For namix's thing]
i caught a glimpse downtown,
movie scene rewrote in winter ides,
instead of listening, drowned out its picturesque designs
with SepSe7en's rhymes and unfocused eyes.
not getting used to the phase we've defined,
hesitance that erased a generation's drive-
I'd rather eyeball an Epinephrine pen
than see my Twitter name trend-
see, I'm bitter again, it's this miscreant phase,
tired of glimpses of the past but nothing remains,
it's not society's fault, no scapegoat to blame,
but yo, same note- it makes deja vu strange-
am I reliving summer songs from Boston
or what the TV convinced us we'd long forgotten.
culture's built around a golden age
whose yellow details stain every fresh page,
the phenomenon of lies we've accepted with praise,
quotes- the lexicon for conveying cliches,
artificial displays, emotions relayed,
catch a single thing authentic-
she caught me mid-sentence and said
she'd known me before, dishonest at best,
but hidden inside a promise was expressed
conscious, unscripted, tied at opposite ends,
then just pretend that it'd always been tied.
hands slightly misaligned-
take a moment, revel in infinite time,
unspoken complaint, workings of fate,
the nervous refrain of every first date-
buried regardless of duration of stay,
and the best we can say is it's hard to explain?
it's a focal mistake- past's presence delayed,
hung on fingertips so long, we haven't opened today.
bus rides, Lowell light displays,
catch a familiar face lined with a nameless gaze
spinning reticent yarns in the safety of age-
honest lies, a phenomenon entertained
i caught a glimpse downtown,
movie scene rewrote in winter ides,
instead of listening, drowned out its picturesque designs
with SepSe7en's rhymes and unfocused eyes.
not getting used to the phase we've defined,
hesitance that erased a generation's drive-
I'd rather eyeball an Epinephrine pen
than see my Twitter name trend-
see, I'm bitter again, it's this miscreant phase,
tired of glimpses of the past but nothing remains,
it's not society's fault, no scapegoat to blame,
but yo, same note- it makes deja vu strange-
am I reliving summer songs from Boston
or what the TV convinced us we'd long forgotten.
culture's built around a golden age
whose yellow details stain every fresh page,
the phenomenon of lies we've accepted with praise,
quotes- the lexicon for conveying cliches,
artificial displays, emotions relayed,
catch a single thing authentic-
she caught me mid-sentence and said
she'd known me before, dishonest at best,
but hidden inside a promise was expressed
conscious, unscripted, tied at opposite ends,
then just pretend that it'd always been tied.
hands slightly misaligned-
take a moment, revel in infinite time,
unspoken complaint, workings of fate,
the nervous refrain of every first date-
buried regardless of duration of stay,
and the best we can say is it's hard to explain?
it's a focal mistake- past's presence delayed,
hung on fingertips so long, we haven't opened today.
bus rides, Lowell light displays,
catch a familiar face lined with a nameless gaze
spinning reticent yarns in the safety of age-
honest lies, a phenomenon entertained