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Coalesce




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Coalesce Album


Coalesce (1995)
1995
1.
2.
3.
Simulcast (demo)
4.
5.
. . .


Desperation, you've tempted me on too many times for me to turn my back on you again.
I lust for your gift to ease the pain for us all.
Accept the fact that their death can prevent our fears.
Not the plot of cowardice, but the birth of a savior.
Acceptance of a martyr role.
Extricate these demons from sight.
Risking life and limb.
Vigil martyr, set the foundation of tolerance at any extreme.
Even the price of suicide.
Even a price so high as this.
The seas of love must part to act on their behalf.
For while we weep, they still rape, raping our patience for change.
Off the hook for feigned insanity,
but not off the hook from the public.
In the media and in the flesh, a crucifixion will be in order,
a celebration of politically correct death.
We will dance with our children once again.
Their security is reinstated by this bastard sacrifice.

. . .


I've met that point in my life.
Want came to need.
Burn these fields of corn, that surround.
My harvest gone at the price of maturity.
But these remains I've left to rot will be resurrected again and again
by the next generation of children who want to change minds with the stain on hand.
But, it's deeper than this, I'm not the only one who sees,
it lies in diversity; acceptance to a degree, only to a degree.
The fire that once occupied my eyes has spread to destroy this world I have grown.
You have nothing new to scream beyond your fields
and not a second of patience to learn from me the same.
This time I harvest the crops of my past.
As far as the demigods are concerned,
I've sold myself out just the same.
I've burned bridges to feign brothers.
Brothers of nothing more than a simple label.
So now, I'm in control after all, for myself I prove I still am.
But within these fields, they'll say I never was.

. . .


The embodiment of innocence stripped from her own territory.
America's child has passed so close to freedom.
Now closest with her maker, the ten lifetimes of terror were experienced by this frail body.
Where have our children gone?
They are not to be found amongst this tabloid filth over kill,
an embarrassing lack of responsibility,
a vicious cycle of soap opera drama pettiness.
No known beginning and no end in sight,
this must be our darkest hour when gossip takes priority over our young.
Are we this shallow?
Are we this apathetic?
Are we this bored?
Prove me wrong.
The child is mine, now that she has been thrown away.
The interest is gone, so now the others suffer.
They suffer unto a grotesque attention span deficit monster.
They turned our play yards into graveyards.
So we cried every night for a week,
squeezing as much concern allowed between each sports update.
You cried every night for a week, yet I still mourn.
Have you forgotten their faces?
Patience is a virtue I won't instate.
I must see the faces of every abductee.
I must taste the pain.
Remind me of our system atrocities.
Don't let me forget. Don't let me forget.
Why haven't we drawn a line?
Instead, we feed and shelter them.
We support the evil and pay their debts.
We've paid their debts.
Why can't we win?

. . .


A salty fist in my chest.
Please no explanation, its your time to be angry now.
Could I possibly be so selfish as to take that away?
To compare myself.
I'm so miserably pathetic and helpless again.
I'm so little lying next to you, in this cold sweat of mine.
My sympathizing, however honest, still a belittlement.
I can't heal a thing.
What god is responsible.
I can only hold your hand.
Live. Dehydrated, nothing pacified.
You can disassociate yourself.
Tools of your trade, survival.
It's the only safe place left anymore.
But can you tell me, are you here now?
Is my touch touching you, or that tool of yours?
I saved all the debt for you, you're still in debt.
You're broken wings I have taken on to mend
and right now I'd do the same onto you if it would change a thing.
If I could cripple your mind again.
If it were my place.
Grant her the wings, grant her the gift to cope.
You leave her no choice than to steal her birthright.
Children don't cry tears of guilt for the sins of their predators.

. . .


What makes you think you deserve the sediment of my truth?
You should expect me to be so honest.
I owe you nothing, no blue prints for growth.
I can barely begin to tackle myself.
A friend is a foreign term, good, better, best, intangible.
Please, one at a time.
It's all they can handle.
Please let me blend as well.
It's always too much.
Cover at the repercussions of honesty.
It means nothing yet still the world hanging on every word.
Violence is no motive to communicate.
Come unto me in all your glory.
All consuming in this childish pride.
Your blows so soothing.
Is this proof?
This does not cancel any options.
Broken idols, so comical.
I won't accept anything less than absence of prostituted smiles.

. . .


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