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posted by Martin on November 14th, 2009

from CDEP ‘what to make of a diminished thing’:

after all the years here’s where we’ve ended up
our faces may be smiling but we won’t forget the painful stuff
lets make this work without pretentions
this time we’ll hold no illusions
those chords struck hard in my heart and in my mind
when i was a kid, it all seemed so simple
“values here” loud and clear and ambitions well defined
and though the rhetoric has dulled and lost its impact over time
those notes still chime in my heart and with my mind
what’s left of us when the meaning starts to fade? what’s there to make of a place degraded? so maybe we lost the plot and maybe there’s promises we forgot
but the ending hasn’t been written yet, its still a story i believe in
I know it isn’t a sure bet, but i just can’t give it up just yet
lets pick up the pieces and start again, this time its ours for the taking
we can make this mean something again if we stick it through to the end

we’re not born this far down
we’re drained, and we can’t live empty
infinite markets to fill our needs

you take the product, alienate it from process, medicate all weakened states to avoid financial losses
to take the symptom, treat it like a disease, a nation of troubled minds diagnosed with so much ease

we’re offered many treatments; no cures
a steady-state maintains the prescribed expectations

every mood is dialed in

push us so far apart we need a pill just to relate to one another
run up our anxieties and sell us the way down
push us so far apart the only thing we feel is separation
run up our anxieties and sell us the way down

and while we worry, across the world they desperately wait
their demand is met with our supply

Like the streets of a ghost town, empty faces walking around
Here I’m searching for a memory of some feeling that can’t be found
Plans change and people change, habits change and minds change
But the cities you expect to stay the same
Like the lanes of a carnival and I’m here to play the clown
Late arrival, looks like the show skipped town

Our blind faith in progress, the dollar that saves,
Is the end of a process that leads us to our graves.
The placement of profit above human need,
The cost of our future is the high price of greed.

It’s easier to look away.
As climates rise and rivers dry
It’s easier to look away.
When we won’t be the first to die.

We don’t see the consequences,
They’ve been shielded from us.
We don’t bear the burden,
It’s on the backs of the poorest scapegoats.

I have to recognize my role, I can’t stand idly by while the strangle takes it’s hold,
it’s all our burden we’re all to blame, it’s all on us to make a change.

We know the figures, we’ve seen the facts.
It’s all on us to adapt.
We’re running out of time.

Every day we come home to our nests within the cities graves as people lay to rest
in this breathing necropolis
And I am what you never see, but not unique to history,
these tombs have been our homes for centuries.
By day we swarm the streets like flies on a carcass left to die.
We are the only spirits that haunt this city of the dead. A knife to the wound to clean it.
Pressures mount and by sundown we struggle with new bodies condemned to live and die in this city of the dead.
Power written in these stones, traditions that these busts bestow among the vermin, the rats, we still grow.
We can make our way through the city graves, but we can never regain what they take away because of what we are to them.

Demolished by our greed and selfish futures.
Following their lead (to) secure prosperity.
Patterns coming to a head. Forget civil movement for, but faith in the figure head.
Decisive action, regressive thinking, forget whats been fought for, our brains are shrinking
We’re choosing to leave each other behind with nothing but crumbling supports.
Rebuild these braces to support one another.
Lower this tide before we all drown.
Set back the clock.

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