Sounds pulled from strings,
strings pulled from bodies,
bodies pulled from skin,
leaving a red lip under my lowest right rib.
There was once blood on the front,
I’ve since scraped it off,
by playing hard,
harder than when I bled,
to see where those efforts led.
Screams pushed over chords,
chords pushed out the soul,
plucked in 4/4,
arms pump in primal toil.
I get lost in the vacuum of possibility,
so get fucked if you can’t keep up with me,
there’s one hope, one hope for punk rock,
so jump off, jump out into nothing.