Dead on the Runway – Tom Kane

Sitting here, can’t cope with the stress
Wishing to leave, but you’re trapped
Waiting, at the mercy of another
Stabbed in the chest, pain as your brother
Consoling you, telling you it’s all real
Not knowing, when is the end
Continually falling for it, again and again

Sitting here, unaware what to do
Will to life and action have been sucked
Crushed inner being, nothing is felt
No drive, no connection yet connected
Cameras straight from the funhouse
Nothing original, all being made of glass
Exposed to the heat, melting like wax
Don’t hold their feet to the fire, for nothing was ever sincere

Retreating within, hiding
Muttering to yourself, you will amount to something
Putting it off, saved for another day
Believing, eventually, you’ll gather the muster
To make something, to live the dream
the person, someone, who has some semblance of talent
Another pseud, sham, false prophet
Straight from the sweatshop and found on your plate
One who thinks they’re above what they are
Clouded by the aura of smug fogging Golgotha

Angst and a cry for help, we screwed ourselves
Failing to adapt, lashing out when called
Searching for an exit, confronted with denial
Disgraced and annoyed, looking to a higher power
Something to take us
wanting to take ourselves
As the star rises, the curtain falls