Dance and laugh and play. Ignore the message we convey.
It seems we're only here to entertain.
A rebellion cut-to-fit. Well I refuse to be the soundtrack
to it. While we entertain we're still knee-deep in
shit. There's something wrong inside.
We've played it safe, enjoyed the ride.
You won't like this but I have something to confide.
We strive for something more than a faded sticker on
a skateboard. Now we've rained on your parade and we're
out the door. And I don't even care any fucking more.
Witness this pair in accomplice.
Witness a pair; lethargic,
unconscious. No brows furrowed in question,
complacent, completing their tasks
(no questions asked). Consider this critic a cretin.
Just resting on laurels (completely invented).
Word acrobatics performed with both harness and net.
I am so full of shit. But I will remain until this
self-awareness fades. Until I defeat the the purpose
served by this soapbox that you made. That you made.