the climb of a broken social scene:

word vomit, visual vomit
it’s all the same
i rang in my name
but he struck me down in shame
a game, he says
to play fame into the grave
so we shave the grain
and endure pain
to gain a pinch of confidence and remain sane
secure the psyche like a stick in hay
not much to hold onto but we sway anyway
dark in its brew
like clouds rolling into the bay
soggy falling grey
heavy in its approach like predator hunting prey
fierce and compact at first
but it matures as it frees from its thirst.