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    Post Apocalyptic Stress Syndrome.

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about

Written, recorded, mixed, and mastered at Good People Studios in Denton, TX.

lyrics

Seen on scene, wide set, yet feather on the toe-tip.

Hip kicks hit like hip-kicks misguided to knelt lips and when felt rich-

-ochet throughout the whole community.

Travesties are sadly a guaranteed shot at unity, which proves to me

That in a crisis you can truly see

All the demons hiding in plain view next to you and me,

And seeing too much to believe it.

But you can't seem to leave it alone

So you take it to the limit and get in the zone to change your attitude.

To cultivate the thing that makes you want to make you make a better you

For the sake of doing it alone.

And doing it alone seems oddly moreso at home than home,

Which is comforting, for some reason.

It's similar to the feeling of feeling changing seasons,

The knowledge of knowledge without the need for conceited egotistical pleasure-seeking.

The pleasure of pleasure without a reason,

The reason you believe in what you believe in.

I'm hardly ever home but when I go I wish I had stayed longer.

I have a bad habit of hiding my feelings from me.

Whenever people ask me how come I don't smile, I'm not lonesome.

I'm merely exhibiting hereditary processes and schemes.

I recognize time as a mechanized design of digits,

Passing slowly over me, crashing to and fro with me.

It goes with me, only wherever I wish to take it.

Forgetting is a secret I bear in mind by my habits as nuns do,

Or rabbits that run fools thru briar patches.

I'm Patch Adams with less props and more masks.

I'm not a doctor but I do fill out orders for ass-whoopins'

With crass hooks like the last one I put in.

Down and out is just an excuse for me to run back in.

From back when my back bent and backspins were happening

To right here and now, where you can hear the sound of the boughs cracking,

And can't do a damn thing about it.

Fall where they may, have faith but don't doubt it.

'Cause that's the first step toward a story so tragic.

She say 'I like your back, I tell her I see your Bacchus and

Raise you an automatic old God from the Klaxon.

I'm hardly ever home but when I go I wish I had stayed longer.

I have a bad habit of hiding my feelings from me.

Whenever people ask me how come I don't smile, I'm not lonesome.

I'm merely exhibiting hereditary processes and schemes.

My sentence structure tends to tuk under the pillows of the young ones,

And give the older ones a pleasant thought on which to fall asleep.

I promised myself that this would change a life some day.

I like to think this is a promise that we continue to keep.

Keep on keeping it.

credits

from Post Apocalyptic Stress Syndrome, released December 5, 2013
Composed by Amir Matthew Westmoreland and MR Wheat. Lyrics by Adonias "A.D." Wondwessen.

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The BoomBachs Denton, Texas

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