Testo Bonaparte's Lungs

what to do with ourselves? stuff us into pockets, or make fists to fight, just because... let's make armor with hands and bleed them over chained wire fences. this life is a book we read cover to cover yet never foresee how it ends. pulled too tight. pushed back too far and suffered. swollen up, broken again. lacerated. incapacitated beyond my belief. please, don't fly away now your warm breath pumps air into this lifeless body. like blooming flowers i'll melt again. huff, puff, and fucking forget it. how we all see ourselves as forgotten heroes with false pretenses and vacant uncaring eyes. a memory that's floating away is a secret taken to the grave. a decision that you never made ruined everything. caused a catastrophe that we can live with...