If understanding could blossom and be pushed at the side of the road Then my lamb, you are a rose Every drift, every sway barely stirs my color And the only thing fitting the caliber are the blues Won't you be impressed with how depressed I am How fucking scared to death I am, of dying and liars And trying to win back my soft spoken twenties? Sweat and blood in the fissures of my hands, howling at the torpor "It's not what you look at, it's what you see" They fly more like insects than angels