A poem to express some of my views on the world we live in.
If love is not enough, then I fear the world that awaits When lust is the new “L-word” and “Mi Amor” takes the bait. Now, Do I need to advertise like people magazine? My traits, my flaws, the sights I’ve seen Do I need to take a test for my sex appeal? This world I fear has grown to be everything but real. Plastic lips, hair flips, liposuction reconstruction fallout from blowouts, cancer stricken. We do this to ourselves. We deserve no remorse. Fallacies galore. Humanity has lost its whim Soon enough We will all fall to the floor from poisoning ourselves so willingly. Like a lab rat that turned in an application citing experience in self-termination.
This song always brings me to the very brink of bawling my eyes out at the end. It’s just the way he sings it. It shows the writer’s vulnerability: Daryl Palumbo, in this case. It’s been known/believed (I never could ask personally) that he was diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease after years of touring with GlassJaw. And if anyone knows how that goes, it is a pretty terrible way to live life until you get it under control with medication and regular doctor visits. It’s been rumored that he was forced to wear a diaper during some of his shows just in case any discharge occurred. Which in-turn, forced them to tour less frequently and now it seems like they only do a few shows per year. But their followers have never lost faith. I still thank him for giving us his music.We all are dedicated to what he has provided us. Instead of holding it inside forever.
Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Silence BY: GlassJaw
That burning feeling.
Red liquids.
Clear liquids.
Blessed are the sick.
Children shiver in the river.
Where is our god now?
Does he watch over all in El Segundo?
He don’t lie when he say,
Under!
I’m wasting away.
I find time to pine.
When pining away my time.
Within sin.
With no redemption.
We will find our souls
and the shells they’re kept in
all wasted away.
Blessed are the sick in me.
The prey, the thrill, the chill and we
are martyrs that crumble on time.
Predestination.
We’ll stop upon dimes.
And he’s constructed us all in El Segundo,
as the shivering children pray.
Demons in
Demons out.
Cry for dawn.
Gratis.
bored.
I’m the matador of the children’s ward.
Beggars wed choosers.
Red sheets.
Bed sheets.
Boozers.
I’m the head fan.
Blessed be my bed pan.
It’s a cold, having just been mugged feeling.
In the sun
I’ve got this for you
It’s under my finger nails.
I brought this for you.
It’s typically Sunday.
I’m digging a hole.
I’ll shut out the world.
This is what it’s like to be alone,
This is what it’s like to be alone…
The Way it Goes 