Epitaph

Writing with some vague intent
Like pulling hair out of cement
Straining through the days lament
What do I need to say
Why do I have to say it
Parables and prophecies
Odes and tomes and poetry
Another jaded century
What do I need to say
Why do I have to say it

2100 BC on a piece of fucking stone
Flash to 21st century and im so fucking stoned
There is lore about the shores of the dead sea scrolls
Fragmented texts but im so fragmented I just keep scrolling
Rolling- off of the tip of my tongue
Pretentious pedantry timed to the beat of the drum
Write from experience
Honour whats inside
But my memory's erratic so a lot is falsified
Fossilized but still alive so many voices from the past

Words that echo of the present aren't meant to outlast
No longevity in words especially when they are facts
They merely serve the fickle fiction for this soft white track
Epitaph- for the last – tortured writer on the planet
Here lies Young Werther who died drowsily on Xanax
Overdose on thinking yeah a casualty of art
Fountain of Bellagio beating in my heart
Imagine that there's no final act
Just adaptations of perpetual mass
How climactic could it possibly be

A 1000 plateaus that we cannot see
For every instance there is a blind
That permeates into one of a kind
Splinter splinter time is not intact
And the world is independent of all facts
Why cant I say what's on my mind
Why are the words so hard to find
I have no mouth and I must scream
Tower of babel in my dreams