What does it feel like, that sweetness in your demeanor?
Does it prove to the world a rebellion or a complacency?
Tumble after tumble, the words are never quite the same.
Memories melt into rapid fire film strips,
the tension cracking at every turn.
Enter a change of pace: the knee highboots of youthful rage,
the black skirt that speaks without a sound,
partly to let the ripped rock tee tell the real story—
tell the truth as one like you would have it—this is just a costume.
We all come to the party playing parts interchangeable
with the next sip, with that wide-eyed gasp after gossip.
It won't change us.
There's still that tobacco lingering in the air,
the brush of the October breeze on our faces,
the curiosity that piques, but barely maims—
Bit players yet to find their starring roles.
