Volatile

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Death and Taxes

3:09

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Comfortable corner crushing me
Slant ceiling off my vent
Self-impressioned ass-mark indent
The better the view, the more I feel remote
I 86 it and cut the loss
Before your empty signals switch me off
And I’m feeling long-lost
The shell is weather-worn
The fluid at the core is volatile
I’m not quite myself today
Maybe I’ll stand and breathe
Peel the long-dead skin away
And step out of the beam
Yes, I feel like standing on the outside
And take in a risky air
I’d rather die by chance than in my chair
Half-unaware
The man is weather-worn
The child at the core is volatile

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