This Blackest Purse

I'm not who, with my eyes from stage
I claim to be
I've only cradled death in my own ending
Flesh from far off and abstracted lit
Candle wick flickering

And when a thing starts finishing around me
I faint or fake a mustache, an accent, or flee
In fear my expired license be pulled by sheer proximity

Fact: the poseur in the bowler gets shot first
Thinks he's the shit 'cause he can spit and curse
Acting brash and flashing a pistol that squirts
Scowling, and shouting, "Shall we dance?"

Should our hero's hands be holding this blackest purse?
Mom, am I failing, or worse?
Mom, am I failing?
(Mom, am I failing?)

What should these earnest hands be holding?

Still sporting my ex-girlfriend's dead ex-boyfriend's boxers
I want to operate from a base of hunger
No longer be ashamed and hide my
Tears in shower water, while I lather for pleasure

I want to speak at an intimate decibel
With the precision of an infinite decimal
To listen up and send back a true echo
Of something forever felt but never heard

I want that sharpened steel of truth in every word

The small fry in the bow-tie dies first
Acting wild, like the spirit of god moving after church
Faking he's hard like he's packed down dirt
Already, and yelling, "Be my guest!"

Should our hero's hands be holding this blackest purse?
Mom, am I failing or worse?
Mom, am I failing?
(Mom, am I failing?)

What should these earnest hands be holding?

Should our hero's hands be holding this blackest purse?
Mom, am I failing or worse?
Mom, am I failing?
(Mom, am I failing?)

What should these earnest hands be holding?