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about
Our alarms should never have become our phones.
lyrics
Barely Morning Edition
At first light who puts up a fight? Just give me all your reasons to grieve. I mumble under my breath, “Wish a plague on you all.” There is not one of you I care to believe. It’s panic. It’s barely morning, got me ready to cry and almost looking for a new place to live. They keep on shaking me down - can’t turn away from it all. I’m looking for some kind of pressure release. It always manifests somewhere on the drive. An ugly like you never wanted to see. Im needing someone to blame. Somebody different from me. The other from the news that I read. Piece it all together, burn it into your eyes.
You should analyze that, but you don’t. Say you could fix that, but you won’t. How can we fight that, if you won’t? Or realize that, if you don’t? So [expletive] off. [Expletive] off. Humor me and [expletive] off. Just [expletive] off.
We piece it all together, burn it into our eyes, and consume it all without a critique. We are beyond the pale - quite simply sacrificed at the altars where we built our beliefs. People everywhere are running from life, and running out of places to run. You try to visualize the place they occupied, and bored you scroll until they are gone. It’s not the thought the lot of us just can’t sympathize, we truly never realize.
You could address that, but you won’t. Internalize that, but you don’t. You criticize them because you don't recognize them, but you won’t - you shut off. You shut off. Seriously, you shut off. You shut off. Analyze that, but you don’t. Say you could fix that, but you won’t. How can we fight that if you won’t? Or realize that if you don’t? So [expletive] off. [Expletive] off. Humor me and [expletive] off. Just [expletive] off.
Piece it all together; burn it into your eyes.
The heavy lifting’s here, crushing every healer in sight.
It’s not a breathing exercise, its evil dragged out into the light. This is small war, street to street, we may never broker the peace again. Intellectually, it takes all kinds, but only if you’ll fight to the end. No, the high ground’s not civilized.
People everywhere are running from life, and running out of places to flee. They keep on shaking us down - can’t turn away from them all - the others from the news that I read.
I probably need to go back to sleep. It’s self-correcting when I shut out the sheep. It’s barely morning, got me ready to cry. Piece it all together, burn it into your eyes.
credits
from Small War & The New Angeles Globe,
released November 10, 2017
Written, Recorded & Mixed by J. Clark Webber
Mastered by Nick Zampiello
Additional Input from Glen Alger Schricker
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