1. |
I.
01:45
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2. |
Oedipus, The King
03:59
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A father’s scorn, shrouded by a sorry excuse for affection, colors the world, the most vibrant shade of hate.
Family is born and friends are chosen.
I gauge my worth in pints of blood.
A mother’s love, unconditional and burning bright is nothing more than the most primal of animal instincts.
A sister’s warmth, boundless and innocent lies on a foundation, built like a house of cards.
Treason in your own home.
A brother’s trust, a fearless companion, should be treated as a mortal enemy, holding the most ill kept of secrets.
So we can cower and lie in the shade of a family tree or we can step out into the sun and char our flesh straight to the bone.
This is a testament of youth.
We gain no balance from deception; accept that you’re worthless.
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3. |
II.
00:51
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4. |
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Written in and about a world of carbon copies, these words are a copy just the same. Written in and about a world where no one cares, these words warrant no caring just the same.
Skin is deceiving. I have the skin of an angel but I am the jackal.
Surrounded by self-replicated, self-deprecating, model-citizens leaning towards the south side of regret. Looking up to downtrodden outlaws precariously perched on notched bedposts.
We boil the sinews of flesh and blood for the sake of carnal art.
And I ask, will you remember us when we’re gone?
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5. |
III.
01:55
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Breathe. Deep.
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6. |
A Braggart Soldier
04:12
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You chose to wear the crown of thorns. You chose to carry the cross.
Don’t blame me for your burdens. I don’t want your grace. I don’t need to be saved.
All the witnesses will burn. They’re living in borrowed time; they’re speaking in borrowed words.
A sinner by any other name is still a sinner. Your hate by any other name is still misguided.
God is dead, so are those who wallow in his footsteps. Bargain with misguided hate.
I don’t owe you anything and it’s time to sever the right hand.
I am not the poet-laureate, I’m not the lamb, I’m not the pied piper of pious patrons.
They were always martyrs in their own right, give them recognition, let them die it’s all they’ll ever have.
I was a diligent servant.
Then made into a braggart soldier.
Now I call the shots.
No longer alienated.
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7. |
IV.
01:50
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8. |
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There is no accounting for taste and the one that you left in my mouth is so bitter; I wish I could wash it out.
Frankly, you’ve exploited a means to an end, one that was always my means to defend.
You consider yourself the patron saint of the middle-class, gazed upon by the dead-stare of the uninspired millions, who relish themselves in the worst traits of past generations.
Continue to wade through stagnant chords.
Repetitive tones at dawn.
Spewing gutter-mouth.
But please understand my hate is not exclusive, to black or to blue, to any one pronoun, myself or to you. My hate is like the Sun; it shines on every smiling face, on all the walking-dead and living disgraced.
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9. |
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17 years behind bars.
17 years I’ve been wrong.
This was never my nightmare. The papers read bound and gagged, drowned and dragged, but they jailed the wrong hands.
How could my sentence relate? I’m waking up from this dream.
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