What the Future Bleeds

My world is aching;

I don't know why.

Everyone is faking;

I'm trapped here inside.

​

Movement one has completed;

now please remain seated.

Bloom, flicker, pop!

Bloom, flicker, pop!

See what the future bleeds.

​

My bedroom is melting,

smells of formaldehyde.

I'm depressed all day

to get high at night.

​

Why prepare for winter?

Why's a little cold so tough?

I'd sooner die from exposure

because I've had enough.

​

Too chicken shit to quit.

Can't know what comes after it.

I'll go on,

I guess.

Just keep my cigarette lit.

​

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