I'm blaming the headlines
for large fonts and paper crimes
and each page will give a reason.
I blew myself to bits and pieces
and where am I now?
All alone inside my cell;
the master key is overrated.
This corner is my cosmopolitan nightmare.

Take my hand,
lead me from the place I call my home
into a deeper hell or shade beneath the trees.
But deserted minds will come between
you and whatever's left of me.
Can you wear your lungs upon your sleeve
and promise you won't breathe for me?

I'll turn each word into a martyr
of every soul that we've forgotten
and every burned out match
sent to strike a symphony;
and then I turn my past into a concrete novel
of weapons and faked swords and gunpoint
held against our throats.
With too many questions and the answers
to accomany the drama
of what no one has in common,
come and share with me.

I'm still a factor of a frame
in a face without a name
and every dream I spoke aloud
was just a useless bit of sound;
but my gut instinct is to run away
from files and the blasphemy
that keeps the love away from me.

It's too early to assume
that the record stores are doomed
from the plastic and the problems
of the crimes that we've forgotten.
Don't blame me.
I will blame myself
for broken inquisitions
and the memories that won't forget me.