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see dead whales on tree branches not just the snow those winters where everything can be a metaphor for you and her, you and him, but not everything is young fucking love.
while we were upstate forming, breathing out this country you were inside writing it out, but your words embody the arrested bullshit of youth.
so where were you when we were throwing bricks, and where were you when we were breaking lines, and breaking bones and mending cuts?
between your suburban blues and not so clever words youâre drowning in the undertow and overdone. there are still reasons worth fighting and worth dying for but i donât think your cause is one. youâre writing lies, we watched the flag burn in our bed.
if everybody has a reason for everything and walls rise when youâre truly scared, do they fall when youâve been held down, when youâve had enough, are you untying knots or yelling at the moon?
for all the times that we believed the cause, for all the years that we were bent and never broke, for all the songs that we wish we never wrote, weâre getting old, not sitting out.
look what youâve made. youâre giving it up, lay down now and die. look what theyâve done, theyâre selling us out, weâre buying in. we watched the flag burn in our bed, we dragged our bones on the ocean floor.