What’s Your Scene?

Screaming and dreaming,
From beneath the limelight.
Subtle as chaos,
And a battle to fight.
Death to decision,
Or a contradiction,
Such success, it feels like your tomb.
You’re massive, with a great force on this tiny world.
What’s your scene?
‘Tis non-existent?
Crying exhaustion, just like a blind man’s tears of crimson.
Growing, and changing,
Like such ne’er ending vortex.
You begin to wonder how things could get any worse.
As you strum your guitar,
To a new tune.
You scream out in anger,
Like the guitar, screaming in death metal rage,
And just as your fans,
They’re loud in your view, just below,
Thrashing with renege, until it hurts,
For they are the only ones.
You call yourself
“One of the Punk Rock scene”,
You want more than that “Pretty in Pink” and “Play It Loud”.
And so you want your name flashing o’er head.
Bright, and screeching out your description.
You wanna ride in a tour bus, and not a van,
Just as though you’re a kicking rich band.
They want to stay here, and you wanna leave,
So we’re your escape,
This place is your get-away car,
Rockin’ out the ol’ state college,
You attack you six-piece Pearl,
You wanna be Mark O’Connell#.
You think you can hit it with The Starting Line#, or even Taking Back Sunday#;
All you want is the big scene,
A new card.
A great big house,
And your little sports car.
To leave them behind, playing fifty at the local Holiday Inn,
Maybe someday…
Slamming out, and breaking your sixth string,
Wearing out that brand new Fender# in just a night.
Playing to a crowd of ten,
In the near-by parking garage.
Twenty amps, make ‘em surrender,
It’s your life, wild and free,
A small-town loser, with a sight to remember.
Snarling with disgust,
At their white wife beaters and their Fall Out Boy sound#,
But all they want is to play it loud.
You’ve got your spikes, so you can pretend.
Bleeding for the big times,
As you Fret in front of millions.
Fluorescent blue hair, the only thing bigger than your ego,
You want them to stare.
Take your Avril Lavigne tie, my Love,
Knot it up, like a noose.
So you say you’re from around here,
You’ve already your own little plans.
They’re proud, they want to stay.
Born and raised, of fulfillment, in this life.
“This is where I’m from, This is what I am, It’s who I wanna be.”
Your no more than what’s bargained for.
You lie next to the mausoleum,
Drowning yourself in that Jack and Rum,
Pull a Kurt Cobain#,
Put that 45 to your brain, Son.
You may just be a notch in the bedpost,
So stop burning your bridges and drive off of them.
This loud and energetic song,
It’s your bloodiest romance,
Your favorite of the three ventricles.
They’re down writing those lyrics, for you to slit your wrists to.
Be number one with the bullet.
Darling, take me by the hand,
For I want to see a real loud band.
Now it’s time for us to go.
We’re going to a Punk Rawk show!