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Has a peripheal ever snared, reeled in and caught
You like a fish made out in patterns on inkblots?
I'll drown you in the countless tears of the music and the art
To give to you the gift of all the sorrows of the heart.

Our distrust was established in distant memory unblocked;
Running away from the truth from the moment we could walk.
We tried to voice our anger in streams of baby-talk-
They said, "How cute!" we screamed, "Hate you!" they were shocked,
But someone knew. He sat brooding on some caustic, twisted plot.
Unraveled now just filaments of the web in which we had been caught,
Like the spores of a fungus airborne off of summer rot,
Settling into adolescence amidst the ethers where we forgot.
Later. On a blurrish night of opiated hollows,
We gathered in the shadows to commemorate our sorrows;
Here and there lie shiny scraps of our shattered lost tomorrows.
Our past selves were cadavers that we cut down from the gallows

In our art, our dance and music we have left our tears unshed,
To fill your heart with sorrow and to infiltrate your head.
Remember every suicide could be alive if one word had been said,
But that word now lies buried with the bones of our cursed dead.