My message this evenin’
Is simple indeed
Wherever you wander
Whatever your breed
There’s just one thing baby
That comes from above
When push comes to shove
Thank god for self love
Thank him, thank him
God for self love
Thank him, thank him
God for self love
When push comes to shove
Thank god for self love
When livin’ gets heavy
And hope starts to fade
You just can’t continue
That old masquerade
Remember the power that comes from above
When push comes to shove
Thank god for self love
Thank him, thank him
God for self love
Thank him, thank him
God for self love
When push comes to shove
Thank god for self love
you don’t get to be a saint the dead man says
you get to warm your hands for a moment
you get to catch your breath and say one thing
-Patrick Friesen
So you don’t get to be a saint.
Martyrs never last this long.
Guess I’ll never be the one to defeat desire in song.
Here’s a marker, here’s my naked skin, our Exhibit A.
Put a small x where I lost my way.
All the actors broke their legs, and it’s too late to postpone.
The producer’s getting high, and the audience went home.
Smile and take your awkward bow.
Turn and stumble off the stage.
Let the rain be your applause, every encore soothe your rage.
Squint with one eye, hum a show-tune, and wait for your ride to say, "Oh, that’s where you must have lost your way."
Megaphones in helicopters squeal, "Hey, are you okay?" as searchlights circle where we lost our way.
All our accidents went purposeful and fell, stripped of providence or any way to tell that our intentions were intangible and sweet.
Sick with simple math and shy discoveries, piled up against our impending defeat.