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living.with.ghosts

LYRICS: You live with ghosts that never came to be, Blueprints of a self sketched wrong in the circuitry. Certain you the person in the mirror? That’s perjury— Just rehearsing verses that the nervous mind rehearsed to be. First you thought to name ’em just to frame ’em for the census, Then the senses sensed the sentence bending all the senses. Tongue twist truth till the proof lose the fences, Every label unstable when the able mind invents it. Tried colors—“Maybe shades could save the day,” But the rays betray the gaze when the gaze misbehave. Sight slight slight of the mind’s display, When the eye spy lies in the light of the gray. Now the road that it rode start folding the map, So you fold the whole notion of controlling the map. Soul in a trap of a role in a rap— Try to hold the whole ocean in a bowl of a cap. Eyeball eyeballing the eyeball’s stare, Like a glare tryna glare at the glare in the air. Teeth tryna eat they own seat in the chair, Ears hear here but the hear ain’t there. Villain pen spill venom in the vellum, Tell ’em every cell in the skeleton a sermon. Learning that the yearning for a version of a person Is a curtain for the certain when the curtain start turning. Still you sit with the spirits in the silence of the room, Watching thought clouds crowd in the climate of the gloom. Out of many you attach to a phantom in the plume— Now the ghost got a throne and the throne got a tomb. Ghosts in the room but the room ain’t there, Mind play tricks on the loom of the air. You pick one phantom from a phantom parade, Then forget every shade of the shade that it made. Ghosts in the room but the room ain’t real, Truth get twisted when the tongue start to feel. Out of many you crown one throne in the dome— Now the ghost got a key to the bones of your home. No reason to worry—my story’s a glory of sorrow, Borrowed tomorrow from sorrow that swallowed tomorrow. Follow the hollow of hollow applause, Apostles of gossip embossing the loss. My tombstone talk when the tune go mute, Truth stay buried in the groove of the flute. Proof get spoofed in a booth full of suits, Selling hell like it help when it’s seldom the truth. Tail telling tale when the trail get frail, When the scale of the sale make the sail set sail. Fail so well that the fail look pale— Like a veil over hell with a bell in the mail. Growing noise of the story get stoic torment, Boy went searching for joy but the soil went dormant. Achilles heel feel the steel of the torment, Still kneel real to the will of the moment. Villainous rhythm I willingly fill in the felony, Melody meddling heavily steadily mentally. Enemy energy entering endlessly, Sentences sentencing sense of identity. Feel it? The syllables swivel and scribble the signal, A riddle that riddles the middle of mental. Temple tremble when the tempo get simple, Symbol of simple assembled from symbols. Ghost that you chose got close to your chest, Host of the most but you toast to the guest. Best of the rest but the rest got suppressed— Now the guest run the nest while you rest in the mess. Ghosts in the room but the room ain’t there, Mind play tricks on the loom of the air. You pick one phantom from a phantom parade, Then forget every shade of the shade that it made. Ghosts in the room but the room ain’t real, Truth get twisted when the tongue start to feel. Out of many you crown one throne in the dome— Now the ghost got a key to the bones of your home. Quiet in the chamber of the thinker’s disguise, Where the “I” try spying on the spy in the eyes. Mind mine mining the mine for a mind— But the find ain’t fine when the finder’s confined. Ocean laugh loud at the shore’s little claim, Shore swore sure it could name the whole game. Same old flame in the brain of the frame— Trying tame the untamed with a chain made of names. Mask on, task strong, bask in the paradox, Clock talk tick-tock boxed in a paradox. Thoughts play chess with the rest of the paradox, Checkmate fate when the mate get paradox. Villain scribble riddles in the middle of the myth, Every metaphor a meteor hitting in the mist. Fist full of syntax spinning in the abyss— Miss the abyss if you listen just a bit. Now the tomb of the tune sing soon to the sand, Where the man that you planned ain’t the man that you planned. Hand of the phantom expanding the land— Till the land of the “I” just a grain in the sand. And the ghost that you chose still close to the throne, But the throne just a tone in the phone of the bone. Known that the known ain’t alone in the known— When the unknown grown overgrown in the zone. Story forever doomed glorious in doom, Bloom of the gloom in the room of the tomb. Soon when the moon hum tune to the womb— You’ll see every ghost was a thought in a room. Ghosts in the room but the room ain’t there, Mind play tricks on the loom of the air. You pick one phantom from a phantom parade, Then forget every shade of the shade that it ma