A Broadcast

It's that special kind of quiet Where one might be concerned But even with this silence My voice can be misheard So I'll sweep the floors For the ghosts who now reside The ones who came before Who never chose a side I'll power through the night For some kind of victory It's not pretty, this vulgar life I'm airing constantly I'll get my fill of praise And taste that bitter love I guess I'm still afraid For when you've had enough The sooner my senses leave The burden I have will go And the golden boy can be Paraded down below And down, I'll go