High Fidelity Audiophile
Scrapped out rubber band T-shirts, cracked out on colorful notes, wind pipes, chords, keys, chimes, rhymes, and rhythms, veins severed by words like swords. Eyes rise, eyes set, can you hear the bass of my heart beat; the base of my circulatory sound system, it keeps siphoning love like an echo, the story is the same but slightly diverse, until I realize that my knees have become roots like trunks, with branches for arms that keep branching and blooming, satellites for heads, keep on spinning like a record until you are in tune, with crayons you can color the sky red and orange, as they bleed and stain our jacket sleeves. We will fucking sing our hearts out full blast, drastic measures, rolling up windows like trained science rats, beautiful angel may I summon you from your cage, may I give you the gift of understanding the undertone stories within the stories, when everything around us we can’t explain, let the experts reign and fuck it all up raining commercial bubble gum children songs, a, b, c, d, e, f, g, won’t you come and dream with me, produce my mind like a high tech music studio changing all beliefs and sounds, subject me into everything that is not true, it’s why radio makes me feel sick and turn blue, so I’ll paint myself red and orange to pretend I’m real, so normal you could peel my skin like an orange, audiophile, the boy in the mirror with the speakered skin, the boy with the blown out mouth and dead leather fingers.
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