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Ceiling Poem Lyrics
You're not flying in my skies again
Not after that landing
Or that skewed approach
You're not getting off the ground this year
Limitless corrosion
Questionable skills
You woke up in a cotton-white cube
Clutching hand-forged papers
Muttering callsigns
You were found in numerous back streets
Holding an umbrella like a satellite dish
Not after that landing
Or that skewed approach
You're not getting off the ground this year
Limitless corrosion
Questionable skills
Clutching hand-forged papers
Muttering callsigns
You were found in numerous back streets
Holding an umbrella like a satellite dish
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I had this awful dream where I was in the elementary school I attended when I was a little kid. I was being held hostage at gunpoint with some other kids by unseen assailants. It seemed like we were the only ones still alive. I somehow escaped and ran across the street to the home where when I was a kid a bunch of us were babysat until our parents picked us up after work. I was rousing kids from their naps, warning them about the danger across the street. I explained that we had to leave before we were taken hostage too and that we needed to help the other kids at school. I had been through this awful experience, traumatized, yet nobody believed me; they suspected I was on drugs.
The dream was kind like a prequel to the story of the person in "Ceiling Poem," who wakes up in a straitjacket. Edgy and damaged, they possess a truth so imminent, so terrible, they could only be mentally ill or dangerous.
"You're not getting off the ground this year." It seems more like never.