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The
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For some us of this is what we live everyday; robust expressionism, if you can pick it apart, in the key of mental trauma. Our own form of Jazz for the significantly less oppressed.
Passion can flow as uninterrupted, don’t even think. Theory is better passed from showmanship than lecture.
We can grow from what we know not by force, maybe from silent protest, but from simply knowing those who built our roads.
Praise those who paved the way for us; your voices yet live in ours.
Give them thanks for the hope they gave us and in return show them what we learned: let the music sing for itself.
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Another location change. This road never seems to end. The gauges are broken and gas may be running low but there is no way to tell for sure. All we can hope for is for paradise to save us.
I’m counting lives by counting road signs; if we can see them still then we are safe for now.
I dread the day that we will reach our destination marked by a sign that says “here the road ends.” The road never ends. I won’t let it unless my heart stops beating.
Paradise hasn’t saved us; yet we continue to move.
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That little voice, although weighing heavy, will forever keep speaking whether or not I’m intently listening. I can hear it screaming encrypted words that I’m supposed to understand.
He tried to do right by us all but was given the coldest of receptions. It all makes sense now: the sinking feeling and the extra weight.
The little voice, of whom I speak, that forever speaks, who forever rests in my head, now and forever loudly shrieks, “Derek is dead!”
God damn that voice; god damn the sentiment. It is the object of false imprisonment.
God damn the notion that keeps me from sleeping.
rebuild and hope that it wasn't all for nothing.
Derek is dead.
No horns will sound tonight, no one will care enough, the story is over now before it began, but there’s one more chapter to write.
End the story.
It was all in my head. Use the tarp; cover our body.
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5. |
Derek is Dead
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Disappointment is more fitting for a different tune; the sound of shards of your life hitting the floor you call your bed. What can I hope for now when all we had picked apart the rotten living and those hopeful to die young.
The voices have changed but only for the better now. Your voice has been lost but it stays walking on level ground.
This can’t be another statistic on the artistic graphic.
Two years spent taking those fucking kids out and now here’s to another two years to make you fucking proud.
This can’t be another statistic on the artistic graphic.
The vision isn’t dead yet, just the creator behind it.
You can bury his body but I’m keeping his fucking soul.
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The Artwork Of New Jersey
Jersey’s beautifully cacophonous five -piece The Artwork Of have just released their new EP The Road Ends//The Road Never Ends. As usual, the band self-produced the project creating yet another new sound, despite a sudden line-up change, turning their signiture brand of “noisecore” into what fans are calling “a more mature version of themselves.” ... more
The Artwork Of recommends:
Great album, despite being super sad.
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