The lies we spin out of indie rock and instagram shock
The tears we hold in paper cups
In the wee hours of the sad mornings
When we have to too much fatigue to stand on greed
Homework becomes hope work and sheets fold themselves into fuel-less airplanes
Ain’t it funny
How many alarms we sleep through while the brains sweep through stunted sleep cycles
Snow falls on a show fallen Sunday
Wide awake thespians in a world with no more make believe
The accidentals hurt like sharp signs and the natural things are flattened to fake