I knew a guy,
he called ‘em “fist-i-cuffs”,
walkin’ around shadow-boxin’ dynamite.
It’s a special kind of someone,
that walks to an edge,
and tries to fight it.
Hell, what do I know about fights anyway,
the one I was in, kid gave me a black eye,
and a bunch of older kids held him down so I could punch back–
I walked away.
‘course, none of them ever looked a kid in the eyes–
tellin’ you how he tried to slit his parents’ throats.
Takes a special kind of understandin’,
but I firmly believe the difference between them and me,
is a few misplaced steps,
shadow-boxin’ dynamite.
You ever feel that explosion?
Starts up deep in you,
’til you can feel the static snappin’ off your words,
stop thinkin’ so much,
just let it all take over,
it don’t matter, it don’t matter now–
{waves don’t start small, they just need a shoreline to show off}
–rip it all up, now, it’s all hurtin’ you,
break it.
BREAK IT
BREAK–
IT
B-R-E-A-K [IT]
tear it apart.
{and waves, they just keep rollin’}
An explosion in open air, that ain’t so bad,
ain’t so bad as when you bury it,
push it real far down,
an’ think, “aw, hell now, it ain’ ever, ever gettin’ out.”
Kid, that thinkin’s dousin’ you in gasoline,
and you ain’t pullin’ some zen buddhist crap when shit gets lit.
So yeah, dig that fucker down, bury it deep,
hold your arms to your belly as the flames an’ gases start to lick at ya’,
watch your veins bulge, your muscles swell, as you try to hold that shit in,
pressin’ right against it,
pound for fuckin’ pound,
it has you beat on strength,
and you know it.
So you play “smart”,
you look for scratches in the bark,
your sniffin’ the air for the scent of its piss-marked territory,
and the name of the game is avoidance.
That’s cute.
Real cute there, kid.
Real fuckin’ mature,
you ain’t keepin’ somethin’ like that down,
not just by avoidin’ where it sleeps.
It’s got your scent, boy,
and it hasn’t slept in years,
it’s got footfalls like snowfall,
and it don’t growl ’til it has your throat firmly in jaw,
it don’t drink nothin’ but the blood of you,
so it ain’t pissin’ places for you to find,
you’re hurtin’, it knows,
you’re tired, it knows,
you’re lost, and believe me it knows.
Kid, you were born with a beast inside you,
ain’t no runnin’ from that.
This ain’t no werewolf tale,
ain’t no magic bullets,
ain’t no one knows the difference when it has you,
all this?
ain’t better than shadow-boxin’ dynamite;
whatever pretend blows you land,
it’s still blowin’ your hand off.
You’re a walkin’ amputee, boy,
might as well go down fightin’.
