trigger happy

tear us apart

limb to shred

then ask me why

the floor is red,

you know by now

whose side I’m on

still many times

you prove me wrong,

ten paces pal

then turn around

you’re trigger happy

I know by now,

and turn that smile

into a bullet

now put em up

you beat me to it,

before you frown

I hear the sound

two paces left

I’m underground

That Kurt Cobain.

He had his finger on the pulse of a generation.

And another on the trigger of a shotgun.

Depending on who you believe,

a conspiracy theory won’t bring back the dead.

A corpse doesn’t lie, it sings.

It sings all the beautiful things it couldn’t see alive.

Through sentiment.

Remembrance.

And praise.

Shedding it’s form.

It becomes an idol.

He was a slick cat, that Kurt Cobain.

If he hadn’t wanted fame, Aberdeen would have gladly laid his grave.

And if not for boredom, then how could one know joy?

He was a slick cat, that Kurt Cobain.

A sly dog, indeed.