Jesus is coming on saturday, he said
Some crazy ass pastor predicted the apocalypse
For saturday– too bad I'll be at the beach
On saturday, sorry to spoil your plans
And my poor a hundred and fifty eight fans
Might see the dragging-from-car-bumper cans
And wonder why the apocalyptic pop art
Of shadows on keyboards and the pink-lined start
Never leads to an ending
And maybe I'm bending
To the pressures of lending
Myself to the sending of life
And not fending for myself,
But I'm awake when the world
Rests comfortably on its down pillow
and winks at the weirdo in its sleep
Whose minds of lies and many a disguise
Can't differentiate any more,
Colorblind, I stare at the grey,
The grey monotonous grey,
That overshadows the
Depression– depression if it's there
If my world isn't just a pipe bomb in mid-detonation
If my soul will like longer than the next couple minutes
And the minute details can be seen from miles above
the love
And my soul so old can live and see
That life's not as bad as it seems to be–
If I live beyond this saturday.

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