Mallwalkers

Is this the same song? Does something feel slower?
Is something wrong? Is there anything wrong?
Does something feel slower?
Or is this just the same daydreamed death where you see yourself lowered
Into the cold, greedy ground as your parents and plagiarists lose their shit
Sobbing over your casket
And you broadcast it every couple of hours
When you’re not busy with customers
Selling cell phone cases and cords at that kiosk in the middle of the mall
Air-conditioned days in this insufferable summer
And at night you watch your friends dance around
Feeling weird about fucking each other
And you wonder “Do I even need to be here?” and “Why does this hurt?”
You find a more consistent community with those early morning mallwalkers
Than these horrid hushed hall talkers; judge-gabled gawkers
Some will call you their crush, but they’re all stalkers
And soon enough you’ll find yourself thrust up against those fall lockers
Dreaming of a simple suspended eternity
Where you’re stoned in your basement, playing games
Hanging out with your dogs
Could it ever be possible to just pause on that feeling?
And why does it seem like now every boy cuts you off when you start speaking?
And why do things feel negated before they’re experienced?
Why does it hurt?
When they tell you you talk like a teenager, you sound so stupid
Say nothing
Because those high school scars, and the parallel bars
All the lonely lights on these frozen cars
Every broken-wrist handstand in some best friend’s yard
And every ugly part of everything that people keep on telling you you are
They aren’t yours, they’re just wrong