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I am from forgotten songs, From distorted guitars and double bass. I am from late night TV (Loud, blaring children shouldn’t be watching).
They call it the land of Suburbia, Where I can live the rest of my days without worry.   There is no  Violence.   No thought of War.   No one thinks,
and i can see Betelgeuse in the oil of your orbit Simon says to twist- contort; knots in throat i'd like to file a police report; don't hang up sneakers on the power linesasphalt in your arteries
A crooked frame of a picture perfect familyHangs in the hallwayWith the eyes cut outTo imitate the blindness of suburbia The family dog remains in the frameTo tell the tales of an animal 
When I reach my home, Which is surrounded by none other Than the reach of woodland across the way,   I keep my eyes cast down And ignore the long winding road
Trapped in a so-called paradise I'm getting high off all my sins Watching the world as it tumbles over A loss for every win 
Fucked up polish, bags under my eyes, How is this my ‘so called’ life Flags flying in the breeze free of stature, walls; boundaries
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