1. |
Maybe You'll Remember Me
02:54
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I wonder what went on through your head when you decided you'd leave me for dead... Well, you left it for me to decide, but you knew all too well that there's nothing to my life. I hear a ring, I rush to the phone - I'll talk to anyone. I'm feeling alone because I fumble with words these days; the smell of victory, I can hardly taste.
Now, with paper and pen come these words that fit a melody. I figure it's my soul trying to cure this disease.
These thoughts take me back to where it all could have started - I should have taken your hand before we had parted. It's over, that's plain to see, but if you hear this, maybe you'll remember me.
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2. |
This Mess Is a Place
03:52
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You are seated there subtly picking at your arm. You know civil's fashioned strings, I know dry skin chaffing pain and I will want you in return. I will watch you in return. You will see the way I trip. You won't turn another cheek. I am swallowing my smack, but I'm alright.
Wouldn't pining for your flask - I would pride myself on that, but this mess is a place, darling. This charade, dim, drapes over everything we smoke-a-by, plaqued against your shades. I know this is not your way, darling. This is not your place, darling. You want to kill something? Well, come get me.
Invite, deride... Derisive vice-ified.
And prostrate so that we may pine for you, dimming in alleyways, missed, confrontational, hue wrought too blue to be usable, comparable late to a green kind of feud - oh, I see you.
Are you blinking at the sink? Are you breathing at the present time? This mess is a place, darling. You will paint your face, darling, and we will be alright, darling. We will be tonight. I know this place is a hell, darling. This place is a twat, and if we can hold our lights up, we might just align higher up, but probably not.
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3. |
Colors So Bold
03:07
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You catch my glimpse; it's been a month since our eyes have met this way and for a moment I'm convinced that you'll retrieve me from this lonesome grey. You don't know how hard it is to watch yourself unfold away from the way my hands had drawn you, with colors so bold. Eyes downcast, what my lasting effect is on you, I wonder. With no time, you shuffle past, across the monochrome landing. You, with fleeting glance over the room - it proves to me that I'm still real. Like a cruel act of kindness, just another boy you healed.
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4. |
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The prettiest girl can feel insecure,
When she fails to recognize her valor.
Because mirrors are blind to a beauty,
Which I see at first glance, absolutely.
For my eyes reach much deeper than can light,
And the beauty revealed, I can’t fight.
For carnal lust is cured with distraction,
But her soul grasps me with stronger passion.
There is no relief from a gorgeous heart,
Besides an embrace from her lips like art;
And with her lips, her soul will kiss mine,
And with that kiss, my heart I will consign.
From insecurity, she will be free.
For her true, perfect beauty, she will see.
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5. |
Stephen the Martyr
05:00
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Stephen often was a fool, but quiet, standing on the porch with no hands on the wheel, that caramel-colored wallet, white shoelaces, and father's spectacles, the lenses both poked out, staring at the faces of them, children aglow, having upbeat confrontations around a hearth. His heart was always holding inside itself. The bright child and his hands never got more warm. Nudges at their shoulders flew, but he would never catch them - spent too much time alone down by the tracks. Scarlet wildflowers filled a page. He sprung up and bought himself a canvas, but could never finish it. He would never let you know how high he could jump. I caught him practicing once; it only made him nervous, concentration always so easily broken by the wall that watched him work.
After he became his age and threw up, got himself drafted to fight a bloody war - it was only days and he had torn off countless methods and spirits. It only kept him cold upon returning to an earth where beauty is forsaken. Used to climb trees but now he walked on with his head down, the sidewalk more appealing than the blood-red or scarlet colored flowers - for him that was enough. That was close enough.
Found himself a brand new hat and stammered on, leaving gods and their gospels speaking foreign tongues. I imagine right about now, he'd be sleeping or pacing through his bedroom, questioning his love. To all but him, she's only nothing and breaking with taciturn age - frames begin to fade.
I want to call him sentimental or unlucky, but anything new and he might just fall over dead, soaring dreamless overhead.
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6. |
Repeating Myself
03:02
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It took a year to get back exactly where I started, a couple of holes in my shoes, and friends that parted. Every time, it happens like this - a story, scar, a kiss, but this time I just can't forget about it, sitting here, trying to write the song my brain can hear, but my hands just can't play. My friends are all I have. Why can't they just stay?
"Don't worry boy, you're only in Illinois", you once told me, but what could you know? You've never had to see yourself go.
Sitting here, trying to write the song my brain can hear, but my hands just can't play anymore. My friends are all I have. Why can't they just stay?
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7. |
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They say there has to be something there for me to have this feeling of despair. I want my misery to be you, but your words overshadow the traces and I can see you smile, eyes are glistening. You gently brush your hair behind your ears. It's love, the curse - it held you for the moment, but he takes your smile, forces it out.
It's the smooth caress of a hand placed on your shoulder, but where's this line between sweetness and defile? It's lost. The blood is broken. Enjoy it. It's the ghost in your eyes that set him off or the sound of your voice - it must have been a hurricane that poured around him quickly.
Die to truth. Death to all purveyors of your innocence, death by all you thought you'd never do.
God put a hole in the ground set aside for everything we've done. You almost set your foot into the darkness - you're scarred from just the biting sounds, and they're nothing like your voice. What must have been before? I never heard a sound, but I saw a young photo. There was something in your eyes you've lost or something new there - I wish I'd found out before the winds blew.
But you found out something we should all know: a darker, deadly, truer form of understanding.
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8. |
Stare at the Ceiling
02:32
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9. |
Dancing into Spiderwebs
03:33
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There's a price for being born again. Some are losing weight to nervous sweat. It's a fact, regardless. We're always flaking off in specks of dust and anyone with counter-tops or darker wooden shelves admits that what we are is a nuisance. That's about as far as it gets. Babies sob, their blankets stuck absorbing all the screams and spit. Last night you laid awake for hours, nothing close to a graceful wreck. Between muffled speech and slurring words and your swelling, aching head, some sound fled to my imagination. I thought I heard you screaming then, "it's true, so true. We're all a step on a creaking, endless set of stairs from losing traction in our souls and sliding to an infinite mess." I believe we're headed nowhere too, but only that which we can't see, and I doubt myself each break of day when the eastern edge gets sick from nights of drinking, lost in space, watching a million people breathe their lasts. What a reason to want a coma to come, but the vomit's such a pretty color. Horizon swells up like a bruise, illuminating another half of humanity and cruel routine. I've peered through curtains, opened doors, begging the sky for sleep but nothing given in return comes close to the amount I need. The next time you pace the same lines, moving around to fight the time, turn off the clock that's beckoning and dance for the time you've left to live. I'm Harry, close to Marion, and we're dancing into spiderwebs with black bodies, transparent wings, and everything will be okay for now and ever for all we know.
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10. |
Afterthought
01:38
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I stuck myself in a rut
and I made it far too tough
than it seemed,
but those dark places scrubbed me clean.
I had to go there.
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11. |
Buck Williams [Bonus]
02:22
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Bluer Murals Chicago, Illinois
A project between Undergraduate and Ambivert.
An evolution from acoustic indie-something-based to something entirely different recorded for the sake of whatever.
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