The shouting stopped inside my skull;
Maybe silence is just a one-way street.
No stage lights, yet we still perform and posture
For the lonely crowd that cant clean themselves up.
If it can get better, oh dear god it can get worse.
These class broken shrapnel drunks
Are so tied up with cold lamentations
That my tireless gaze cannot dissect their hopes.
How else could a true amateur learn to sing?
This amplified rectification is a stillbirth before us.