It all starts with one time
you gave someone a bad sign
and they took it the wrong way
disguising their display
and they bottled it inside locked it
up in suicide but the clock still beats
each day with the same pace forced
against our will to change from intersection lines to lanes
so we fall down flights of stairs to see if anyone cares

they're like a deer in bright head lights stopping dead in the train tracks it's like an inevitable accident the screeching halt of tires marks the crash and our last breath as your frame sways on the wall your picture's nailed straight to a cross and the martyr is crucified and sags from thick blood loss or will we salvage pieces worn all of them scattered on the floor and put you back the way you want but no one hears your call so if the rope's too tight just yell the noose is tied around your neck as you're hanging from the ceiling (I'll take the time pay my last respects)