Dead Poetic

With my back to the wall you've somehow pinned me up against.
Fingernails in the palms of these tightly clenched fists.
And I'm somewhere in between a held tongue and a curse.
Or I could keep it inside, and hide it.
In hopes my avoidance will cure it.
But there's no time for this.
Or I could keep it inside, and hide it.
In hopes my avoidance will cure it.
But there's no time for this again.
So light it up and let it fly away.
A Molotov Cocktail, my dreams symbolized in flames.
Put your back to them all, I swear they're not getting you there.
A blueprint for the outside, when it's cold out there.
It's not clear, but I refuse to breathe from these machines again.
You all depend on the filters that keep you away
From the pain when you cry, and the praises you sang.
It's not real so I refuse to breathe from these machines again.