you’ve got knives in your pockets
and an arsenal of dirty stories
a tendency to overcompensate
for your imagined former glories
you speak with fire in your eyes
and walk the streets with obvious ease
but you know you’re missing something
what it is you’re only guessing
it’s not quite as bad
as you would like to think
you’re always on the edge of some
quiet nuclear disaster
you don’t know where you’re headed
but you seem to want to get there faster
you strike the day with fists of lead
and burn through night with muffled laughter
well you know you’re passing something
what it is you’re only guessing
it’s not half as bad
as you would like to think
you’re always homebound from some war
and your scars are in the strangest places
you’d hate to think you were complex
but relish all your half-formed faces
you cleave the air with razord teeth
and joke about the sacred graces
and you know you’re lacking something
what it is you’re only guessing
it’s not near as bad
as you would like to think
akilter 