What began as a poem is now just a burden,   a vicious song that’s mine to keep.   What began as forgetting is now just a prototype of ways to fight off sleep  Arm the thieves with the wings and weights of soldiers to deepen the pockets of the meek  Make mixtapes of other peoples problems   and burn everyone CD’s.   Cause they’ve built themselves some charade   where a saving grace is hard to find.   What began as a song ended up as a death threat   addressed to everyone’s house but mine.   So far confined into dead ends   with greater love of consequence   and a quiver filled with bad intentions   to let them fall where they may.   So tell them for their own sake  Do your best to stay awake   The burden’s are mine,   contently confined to carve the lines in acetate.   Get the syringe.   Let’s see if ink to page brings the same fear as life, love and medicine.   It can break skin  Let’s see who feels it.   Things have changed so little from the way I planned it  a ventricle scarred, lined with mathematics.   And an escape to my old best advantage  a savagely serrated pen.     Get the syringe  Let’s see if ink to page brings the same fear as life, love and medicine  It can break skin  it can’t break me.   Here’s your advantage  Things have changed so little from the way I planned it  a scab to heal hopeless semantics  It’s all romantics  We’re all romantics.   The math is coincidence.