Alexander Palmer

March 29, 2004 - Florida
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subway station suicide

I'm screaming at the eyes buried in the plaster, they're the only ones who listen,
And I jumped onto the subway rails, call that tunnel vision,
I cut my hair and cut my wrists but it never made a difference,
My eyes are shot from crying at the carpet's cruel disinterest.

And, oh, I could write a million suicide notes filled with empty platitudes,
"I can't, I couldn't, I won't," but I know those words won't be true,
God, this music's awful, but what can you expect from a subway station?
And I'm not here for the music, I'm here because I've run out of patience.

Maybe I can find perfection in a pretty gravestone or a trite plaque,
Maybe those rotting roses will be all I ever lacked,
Maybe all those lovely people who barely knew my name,
Will care enough to say, "life's tough, oh ain't that such a shame."

I've perfected a look of apathy, I'd kill at a game of poker,
But instead, I welcome death, I'm playing with live wires,
I wonder if I'll be able to feel the furnace's fire,
When cremation strips away my face and reveals me to be a liar.

Isn't it cute, all these pretty, empty words I've been told?
From the meager few who've gathered that I have no intention of growing old,
Isn't it so wonderful, that those who believe I'll burn in hell,
Can muster nothing more than a strained smile and a "oh, but I do wish you well."

I bet they'll announce it in the sermon,
I bet they'll sing hymns at the service,
I bet everyone will say they'll miss me,
And less than half of them will mean it.

So, life's a bitch, hold my glass, I won't be needing it back,
Life's a bitch, I couldn't give a shit, so I tasted the steel of those subway tracks,
In lieu of flowers, try and give me an explanation,
Of why I should bother to ever leave this subway station.
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