Punk Rock, my Big Cry Baby... We all have problems, we choose our own revolution. Battlecries incoherent, we need to unify and yell in the same direction. Your "Punk" is better than "my punk". I buy my shirts off the internet, I'm a poser.

Here in Jersey, the underground is literal. We pack in basements and bitch about our differences. We're all part of the problem. We know we sound bitter, but we're speaking with our sweet tongues.

Everyone is a judgemental asshole and a pussy, except me. At the end of the day we're all dicks, genitals and gentiles. Persecuted, prosecuted yet optimistic, pissed and vicious. So let this basement be our grave! Buried in jagged soundwaves. I hope the bass will make this place collapse before the cops arrive and it starts all over again.

The perfect sound of pain and distortion. Alcohol and speedballs. You hear your throat rip as you scream from the bottoms of your lungs. Punk tears form oceans in our bellies because we can't let them out so we drown in the sounds of speed and shoulda-coulda-woulda abortions.

Everyone's a failure, thats why we end up here, that's why our songs make it clear that we want out, not just out of this house, but out of this town and out of this state and out of this nation-state. Stop me before I get too political, stop me before I get too emotional, try and stop me and I'll keep on trudging forward bearing grudges on my belt loops.

Nobody can help you, nobody can stop you, but underneath those calluses and tattoos, t-shirts and hair-dos, I really know you. You're pink and soft but you wont let on, but that's ok because it makes you who you are, it's what brings us together, we hide behind our defense mechanisms and display our true passions. This is life, this is art, this is Punk.