Atmosphere - Don't Ever Fucking Question That

Don't ever fucking question that
Don't ever fucking question that
Don't ever fucking question that
Don't ever fucking question that
Don't ever fucking question that
Don't ever fucking question that

Enough to hold you to the brightest of lights,
to place you dangerously close to that sun,
enough to acknowledge the flaws you can't ignore
and recognize the cause of what's done is done,
more than enough to put my name behind my ideals,
and neglect my logic twice daily.
enough to keep me looking for my lucy in the sky with gems,
when I remember how you used to call me baby,
enough to look in my mirror with detest
for every tear you shed regardless of why you wept,
enough to curse any man who can't appreciate the depth
of the ocean I swam till I ran out of breath.

I love you, don't ever fucking question that,
that's why we'll probably never get along.
if I was better at finding the right words to say,
I wouldn't need to write these motherfucking songs.

I love you, I love you (faded)
never, don't ever fucking question that,
don't ever fucking question that.
riding the public transit,
I study the blank stares to answer my questions
of how and why I got so many grey hairs.
I take care of the nervous that runs through my extension cord,
and I reflect on that reoccurring dream where we met the Lord.
single file lines, to give her a pound one at a time
but when i faced her- I attempted to embrace her, she looked so fine,
I awoke from my sleep before her bodyguard had a chance to beat me
to submission and I still walk with my religion.
I watched the children scurry in circles around a two-way mirror,
worrying about which side of the glass projects the reflection clearer.
I hear the whispers of the wind trying to get me to grin,
gassing' me up about the love that I plucked and I've been stuck within,
for every eclipse that stares at me
from the other side of a paper cup of espresso-
I light a match beneath a kettle,
and for ever set of lips that become attached and equipped with that program
to seek success, i bleed my ethics out a slow drip.
I used to know a man who met a woman, dont remember where,
big beautiful eyes and light brown hair,
she was from the burbs, he was from the south side of the city,
this was back when Franklin avenue was still pretty.
two different worlds apart, but the world is just a small town-
we all know how people like to get down.
here we go, aquarius, pisces,
feel the flow of the fluid as I swim through it to free my soul.
bush shoved the cane without the glove numbed the pain.
the magic from up above what it does for the brain,

make the love, paint the picture,
write the song, the player met a virgin made a virgo named him sean.
make the love, paint the picture,
write the song, the player met a virgin made a virgo named him sean.
make the love, paint the picture
and write that song till the break of dawn.

I love you- don't ever fucking question that,
that's why we'll probably never get along.
if I was better at finding the right words to say,
I wouldn't have to write these motherfucking songs.(2X)
I love you (make the love, paint the picture,
and write that song [in faded background]).
I love you.. I love you..

About this Blog

In January of 2002, my then-fiance was taken into police custody from our home in southwest Missouri. He was transferred to the Greene County Justice Center in Springfield, MO, where he remained for over two years awaiting first arraignment, then trial, and finally sentencing. He was sentenced to fourteen months in a program known as Teen Challenge, to be followed with five years of supervised probation.

You might be wondering what the fuck this has to do with a weblog. Well, that's a legitimate question. In jail, mail is inefficient, unlike the USPS. There are extensive and seemingly pointless regulations outlining acceptable mailing material and no guarantees that acceptable mail will be acceptable anyhow. Often my letters were returned to me, and as the months went by, I stopped sending them altogether. But I didn't stop writing them.

We broke up eventually. Which is probably what usually happens and what needed to happen here, but still rather upsetting all the same. But he still didn't get to read my letters, and that's not fair because I received and read all of his.

"Okay," you interject rudely, "but I still don't see what the hell this has to do with a web log. Boo hoo, your boyfriend's in the slammer and Big Brother won't let your letters through. But what the fuck is up with the web log? They don't have the internet in jail do they?" Well, I don't know if they do have the internet in jail, but that wouldn't surprise me. The point of the web log is that he will be able to read my letters eventually. And even if I move, or something happens to those letters, they will still be there for him to read.