Humanifesto

This isn’t a fucking Manifesto.

These are nothing more than the tall tales that I tell myself.

Face down the position I’m used to,

The calming collection that we bare forth.

A final form will be reached, so I tell myself.

We speak in absolutes.

But our screams bare questions.

To live in constant remission and define the world as our fucking companion.

And death will be deserved, served with a glass of sparkling wine.

It could be sweet and simple.

At least, at least, that’s what I tell myself.

Face down the position I’m used to,

A humanifesto is how we plead.

A final form will be reached, so I tell myself.

And you’ve got arbitrary eyes that belong on museum walls.

And the bird shit on your statue will the whitest of them all.

My missiles wanna meet your temples, they sing what you deserve.

Find you at the bottom of an urn.

(A mess for the masses a mess for the masses)

I live at the bottom of your boots where my words won’t bother you.

These signals fading out the truth. (A mess for the masses)

I speak in absolutes, but I still have questions.

I speak in absolutes. At least that’s what I tell myself.