Chonny Jash | Dream (Tally Hall Cover w/ New Lyrics) @ChonnyJash | Uploaded 1 year ago | Updated 7 hours ago
wide. spacey. ethereal. nonsensical. lackadaisical…
plain ol’ weird.
------------------------------------------------------------------
LYRICS:
- all lyrics are new, written by myself -

Endlessly. Helplessly. Ceaselessly. Callously.
Senselessly. Tactlessly. Fractally. Haplessly.
Agony. Tragedy. Patterned duality.
Haptically grappling me. Backing the apathy.
Happenings hardly seem happening in sanity.
Stats are the adversary. Friends are insanity.
Feelings still claw at me. Logic will rot in me.
Dissonance will grow as the greys start to fall from me.
Trying holistically, failing consistently.
Sits in insistence, these ids; cysts’ persistency.
Pick and see sinfully. Hypocrisy picks at thee.
Victim and culprit entwine in one entity.
I am the murderer. I’m the fatality.
They’re just a vestige. Count ‘one, two, three.’

Slow. Old. Sick. Cold.
Heart. Mind. Slay. Soul.
Blood. Falls. Threefold.

Panic at the thought of what the thought will bring: apathy, entropy, agony, ecstasy in who to be, when we unleash all these harmonies’ maladies.
I don’t know if I can go another round of cacophony, my sympathy’s draining me dry.
How much deeper can they dig my sunken eyes?
Where’s the line?
Won’t they just let me writhe inside and let my sides aside so they can realize
to let me die;
that that’d be fine?
At least then I’d finally hear silence and sleep well one night.
And yet here we are, sopping wet.
Mind and Heart, crying, dying covered in our blood and sweat.
Now we sit; intermit; flail and flit; chip and hack, bit by bit.
This is it. This is it. This is it. This is it.

This is a fucking nightmare.
They’re right there.
The sick, black-and-white fright fare,
prepping for the fight where no one wins.
See the silhouettes sneak on in,
[See the marionette restring.]
encased within a sickly filament of arrogance.
They’re happenstance of consciousness.
What do they think this is?
And why do they think to usurp me while I weep? While I sleep. Theirs to reap.
One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.
This is the end of me…

But I am not done yet.
Existence is transient.
There’s still another sunset
to be found inside this tangent,
so I will try again.
And perhaps when we become whole, it’ll hold.
Perhaps that’s optimistic,
and I’m not one for the mystic,
but I’d rather die trying
than to live and have missed it,
and I cannot resist – though futile it is to admit – to insist to use these gifts.
Cosmically kissed. Analogous to the abyss.
Apollo and Artemis [we] will not die.
Perhaps we’ll meet at Tycho,
or somewhere more solar, yet colder.
This world’s hard to shoulder.
But when Harmonia shines, Atlas beholds her,
so bathed in serenity; beauty, in synchronicity;
blissfully entwined. Divine.
So I will try one more time...