Absent
I’m a self-appointed “blind” missionary positioning myself to steer this bull with red eyes and fake blood into the pop wall. My sacred ground is found to be moonlighting as a well-painted bathroom stall – my earth-shattering message is just a mating call. All the sweat in the world won’t make a house out of feathers, nor will good temperament adjust the weather. The variables are perfect; it’s the equation that sucks.
You want my arms not my mouth? Then why do you have to ask my permission to box me out? You’re boring yourself into inspiration while – here’s me – holding up a flag for a country I don’t live in (trying to (w)rap a cause without a ribbon)!
You scientists – you lovers – have the same blood as brothers plus bad haircuts
Thanks for the laughs, I’m slipping into a more comfortable me one harmony at a time. I got so used to playing the bench that I stopped writing rhymes. Data Entry – believe it! The world needs people like me! Perhaps I’m losing interest with the situation at hand – trying to beat democracy into a one-man band.

I’ve toured across the entire United States, played thirty-two shows straight, is that a big deal? No. But everywhere I go kids are telling me, “I like the songs that you do… you should rap more.” I tell them rap is whack, store their comments in the back of my brain and walk quietly, carry a big sticker with only my band’s name. Every time I think I’m being silenced and I’ve got something important to say, I remind myself why I bear a synth and walk this way: if one of us should stray, start hogging the spotlight, it won’t be long before the team spirit gives way to spite. But what do I do if I don’t think we rock the spot right? How long do I have to find myself in something I don’t write?
And I’ve been lying to myself – there’s no team, no group effort. We grew apart despite maintaining a communist image. Our living conditions and responsibilities have become so varied that any hopes of a unified message should be buried. Conversation is now forever laced with the things that we carry and a solo record can turn a pack of wolves into a dogfight, you’ll see... The wolf I invited to dinner is having me.

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