LYRICS

By Crown Colony

POETRY

By Benjamin Wiseman

 

Utopia

Searching for utopia, utopia I’m dreaming

Of a place that I’ve never been

I’m Searching for utopia, utopia I’m dreaming

Of a place that I could be with you

 

By my side, by my side

My only wish is that it’s found in time

 

well I’ve been walking, walking

To the places I’ve been told to stray from

I hear them knocking, they're knocking

Me right back down to eyesight

 

I’m searching for utopia, utopia I’m dreaming

Of a place that I’ve never been

Searching for utopia, utopia I’m dreaming

Of a place that I could be with you

 

By my side

 

my journeys carry, they carry

Me to sights I thought I’d never see

I’m running forever and ever

To the ones that scream for me

 

I’m searching for utopia, utopia I’m dreaming

Of a place that I’ve never been

Searching for utopia, utopia I’m dreaming

Of a place that I could be with you

 

Searching for utopia, utopia I’m dreaming

Of a place that I’ve never been

Searching for utopia, utopia I’m dreaming

Of a place that I could be with you

 

By my side

Start from Nowhere

Some people want to travel the world

to immerse themselves in other cultures.

I just want to go somewhere without any culture:

none of the historical baggage of slavery and territories,

none of the restriction of gender roles and social classes,

no asinine holidays or convoluted dialects.

 

What would it take to find a place

fresh and malleable like an infant’s psyche?

A place without pollution and pesticides,

a place without honking horns and traffic lights,

a place without anyone other than you and me—

if you’ll join me on this bold frontier.

 

I’ll build our house on the sprawling plain

with a view out to the horizon completely unobstructed.

We’ll have fields of grains and beans and citrus trees,

and we’ll train the squirrels to harvest them for us.

We’ll get our water from the pristine stream

and get our fire rubbing two sticks together.

 

We’ll take turns trying each other’s recipes

and telling each other stories so fantastical

and so close to the reality of what we have.

Then we’ll make love voraciously,

take ourselves to the core and expose our essence,

stare at each other and exchange telepathically

 

as we come to the iridescent realization

that our lives could never be better

than having this chance to start from nowhere

and relish in the lack of external influence.

All that we see, we can mold to our desire.

All that we hear is what we tell each other

 

and I’m telling you it’ll be wonderful,

as I hold out our future on a platter,

waiting for you to take a spoonful

that will incite you to grab my hand and cry out

that it’s the best idea you’ve ever heard.

I brace myself for your exuberant onslaught.

 

You frown slightly and look away.

You are silent and excruciating as my palms sweat,

and the platter starts to slip,

then crashes to pieces in the echo of your rejection.

There’s no explanation, no lines to read between,

but there’s a clue in your expression

 

that such a life of isolated purity

is too daunting of an adaptation.

You can’t relinquish your modern conveniences,

and you don’t have the initiative

to help me develop our ideal civilization.

Aside from that, you don’t like me all that much,

 

but nobody likes a dreamer when he takes out his scissors

and severs his backdrop from the standard atmosphere—

the only means by which a dream becomes tangible.

I’ll have to save it for someone unbound—if she exists.

Then I think about my job and all my possessions,

and I doubt I could follow through with it myself.

 

I can say for certain I can’t do it alone.

No one wants to live in paradise alone.

We have to free each other from our comfortable routines.

I’ll cut your chains if you cut mine, and—fine, I get it.

Could you at least help me pick up the pieces?

Regardless if it’s impossible, I live for the dream.


 

Black Sheep

 Hey my darling,

Hey my darling, don’t you know

That I’m the black sheep of the herd?

Black fur keeps me just as warm

  

I wish I was the only one

I wish I was the only one

I wish I was the only one

I wish I was the only one

 

 Hey my dear,

Hey my darling, I thought

I’d built a nest we would behold

But the rest were building nests of gold

  

I wish I was the only one

I wish I was the only one

I wish I was the only one

I wish I was the only one

No One in This Room

Latched on to this isolation,

cut off by my trepidations—

no one could ever know.

Silenced by eccentricity,

forced to hide my identity—

that’s why I never spoke.

Kept down by self-containment,

like weeds beneath the pavement,

how long until I broke?

 

When I declared, “I’m sick of crying in this chair,

hating myself more than my peers,

trying to fake that I’m not weird.”

 

Had a notion to reset things,

after high school’s cruel rejectings—

I looked to start anew.

Kind of hard to be outgoing,

when the real me wasn’t showing—

not for a year or two.

There was only one remedy,

better off as someone’s enemy

than no one in this room.

 

When I declared, “I’m sick of lying in this lair,

chaining myself onto my fears,

trying to fake that I’m not weird.”


 

Out of Touch

Updated status

Scroll through the facts

Manipulate realities

Entertained and relaxed

Share when you care

Oh the burden, it is clasped

 

Seemingly out of touch

Anticipating, what a rush

When wondering just ain't enough

You take control and saddle up

 

Unified to scrutinize

Words that seem to truly pulverize

Mental states to hypnotize

Underneath the illusions where it lies

 

Seemingly out of touch

Anticipating, what a rush

When wondering just ain't enough

You take control and saddle up

 

… Seemingly out of touch

Solitary Confinement

I’ve spent most of my life alone in a room:

a bedroom, a restroom, a big room in the basement

where I could pretend that I was content—

sitting on a futon, listening to outdated rock songs,

 

playing outdated video games, and I’m aware

that they’re symbolic of how little changed

since the adolescent phase when the world and I

went separate ways, and I became a dusty relic.

 

It’s not like I set out to be bitter and hermetic.

I had every intention of merging with the public,

but they wouldn’t let me into the flow of traffic,

and I had some reservations about their destination,

 

but if I got the invitation, I wouldn’t have declined,

and maybe I would find their journey was consciously designed,

or maybe they were the blind leading the blind,

but I keep in mind to keep an open mind.

 

I’m not too proud to consider the notion

I could be the one who’s in the wrong direction.

After all, I can’t say I’m happy,

even with my hindsight thankful for my foresight.

 

I tell myself that I was right when I took a pass

on getting trashed and smoking grass,

and a teenage romance would not last,

so I stayed back in the safety of seclusion,

 

but always with the recognition

that everything I did was just a distraction,

and one day I would snap and have to take action,

and when it happened, with a whirlwind of passion,

 

I took to the streets, and it was anticlimactic

because they wouldn’t let me into the flow of traffic.

In fact, I’m still static after countless attempts.

Sure, I’ve got friends who tolerate my presence

 

because I wore them down with my persistence,

but I’m not in anyone’s inner circle.

I’m nonessential, ornamental,

only seen in the peripheral.

 

I’m a loser, a party pooper,

a state-of-the-art computer

that’s entirely intuitive for all potential users,

but they don’t want to bother to learn what I can offer.

 

I’ve been the instigator, and I’ve earnestly applied.

I’ve been an eager advisor if someone should confide.

And there’s a hundred other strategies I’ve tried

that just make me look like I try too hard,

 

stretching and conforming like a leotard,

but I’m still not fitting, so who am I kidding?

The place I belong is the place where I’m sitting,

and it’s not so bad when I’m not contemplating

 

how many people are meshing and mating.

I swear I’ve spent my whole life waiting

for society to welcome me and be accommodating,

and I know I won’t get anywhere by complaining,

 

but there is nothing more frustrating than the silence

and the empty replies that might as well be silence

whenever I reach out with a newfound hope.

I’m running out of ways to cope,

 

and I’m beginning to understand

how a man goes insane.

I can’t break through, and I can’t break the chain.

I just break down in the hazard lane—

 

alone in a room, where I remain.


 

False Idols

Seize control

Mute the masses with distractions

Bought and sold

Blinded by a feigned attraction

Like moths to flame

 

Take the crown

King yourself and strike them down

The martyr’s ruse

Cons the pawns to fight for you

Like moths to flame

 

Blind to the gambit

Bemused and absentminded fools

Obsessed with nonsense

Sustain your worship and their rule

 

Gilded age

Golden airwaves, but lead in faucets

Cheating time

Futures sold for present profit

Like moths to flame

 

Blind to the gambit

Bemused and absentminded fools

Obsessed with nonsense

Sustain your worship and their rule

 

Blind to the gambit

Bemused and absentminded fools

Obsessed with nonsense

Sustain your worship and their rule

Blind to the gambit

Bemused and absentminded fools

Obsessed with nonsense

Hail your false idols, be the fuel

King for an Hour

King for an hour,

from the top of your tower,

you think you have the best perspective

on a country you’re finding less and less attractive,

and you know there are many who share that sentiment:

concern for our culture, economy, environment.

So you tell every desperate citizen

you will make us great again.

 

King for an hour,

you’ll be the next Eisenhower,

and you’ll run our country like you run your business.

You claim to be remarkably judicious.

How can we resist such a qualified leader—

with impeccable style and unflappable demeanor?

Your brand, like your anthem, says, “We are the champions,”

and we hope you’ll make us great again.

 

King for an hour,

with your money and power,

you don’t exactly represent us,

but we would love to be your apprentice,

and it’s no wonder you appeal to the masses

when you promise to bring back jobs and lower taxes,

and we’re fine with banning migrants based on their religion,

as long as it makes us great again.

  

King for an hour,

we’re starting to sour

on your boasting, bluster, lust, and greed,

and the way you can’t explain how your plans will succeed.

Like what happens when the Mexicans dig under your wall?

Will you put them all in your Taj Mahal?

You know, it seems the more we question,

the less we believe you’ll make us great again.

 

King for an hour,

go back to your tower.

This job was never yours to seize,

and you can’t just grab whatever you please.

You let your ego make all your decisions,

as you go through excuses like you go through women,

and you’re so delusional that you’ll deny when you don’t win,

but in our eyes, you will never be great again.


 

Ignorance

Thorn in my side

Wish I wore thick skin

Fatigue of the mind

         Am I hard headed?

Sedate to ease the ache

         Paralyzed in despair

Numb but still awake

  

Twisted and warped

         Immersed in fallacy

Serenity

         Sheltered in isolation

Head buried in the sand

         Couldn’t see the light

Can never take a stand

 

(Desensitized)                              (And sterilized)

Fallen complacent

Half-hearted and vacant

Fail to recognize

Where the beauty lies

 

 

Cauterized

         A hopeless wound

Mesmerized

         No one’s immune

Overanalyze

         Self-diagnosed

Symptoms of the mind

 

(Desensitized)

Fallen complacent

Half-hearted and vacant

Fail to recognize

Where the beauty lies

The Curse of Tenacity

“And happiness isn’t there for me,
but maybe I’ll inch closer to the source
when I find true north.” — Bad Religion

 

I know exactly how I want to die.

I’ll follow true north until the needle is indecisive.

I’ll pick a spot where the polar bears lost their appetite.

I’ll take a few minutes to soak in the barren serenity,

 

then drive my shovel through the glacier

to excavate a place I can finally—cease.

I’ll lie down in the hole and make myself a snow pillow,

packing it tightly for optimal neck support.

 

I’ll pull out a remote control for a mini bulldozer

to seal my tomb as I chuckle at the inside joke:

As with all other of my trivial accomplishments,

this last one would be done on my own.

 

I’ll save my head for last and marvel at my enclosure,

soft and pristine like angel wings,

my eyes and mouth closed, my nose absorbing

whatever oxygen I let into my casket,

 

as my body goes perfectly numb,

and I reflect on how I never really got what I wanted.

I must have tried a thousand times,

and all that got me was third-degree burns,

 

and maybe that’s why I gravitate toward the ice,

and maybe that’s why I want to make my exit

without feeling any pain or frustration or depression,

like how I assume I’ll feel when I’m gone,

 

but frustration and depression are inescapable,

even as the last breaths I take

are increasingly devoid of sustenance.

I keep focusing on what I never had

 

and how badly I want to go back and try again.

Maybe my mind and body aren’t what they used to be,

but I would invest whatever blood is left

to claw my way out and start spinning my legs

 

until the chill is replaced

by a solar flare of fanatical desire,

taking me all the way back to my point of origin,

ready to take advantage of the chances that remain.

 

I’ll try again—and fail as always,

and try again—in perpetual futility,

and with a strike of enlightenment, I begin to see

not only am I denied of what I want in life,

 

I don’t even get what I want for my death.

It’s my destiny to keep trying until my heart explodes.

The best I can do is learn to accept it—

the curse of tenacity that will haunt me

 

until I find absolute nothingness.


 

Keep On 

Sail on into a new day

The moment that you dreamed of, yet you haven’t slept

Inhale, breathe in the crisp fall air

It’s finally so clear now, you’re so aware

 

And so I’ll leave you with this thought

Keep on keepin’ on

 

You’re running after a story with your pen in hand

You’re gonna rewrite the end

‘Cause who wants to be the villain?

It’s a strange and mixed up place

Yet we still like to call it home

‘Cause when our minds don’t seem to work quite right

We find comfort in the colored lights

 

And so I’ll leave you with this thought

Keep on keepin’ on

 

Things will seem to trouble you, or keep you up at night

‘Cause it feels like life is racing

and it’s gonna pass you by

Create solace in the unknown

there’s no sense in rushing time

Let it ride

 

And so I’ll leave you with this thought

Keep on keepin’ on

 

And so the turbulence of the journey

May be the thing keeping you awake

But as soon as the ride gets smooth again

You seem to miss the shake

 

And so I’ll leave you with this thought

Keep on keepin’ on

Repetitive Motion

The past ten years are of little to no consequence,

with twenty-five loosely defined accomplishments

I try to pass off as progress to a skeptical consciousness

reminding me hourly I’m not truly happy.

 

Console myself I still have my health,

a career, independence, both of my parents,

above average intelligence, and a face like Clark Kent’s,

but none of them pacify the ticking, aching, longing

 

for understanding and appreciation, the validation

that I’m a person who has the ambition

to make the improvement to get to contentment,

or some state of mind I deem to be sufficient.

 

But no one gives a damn if I have what I seek.

I’m an adult with deadlines to meet,

and I’ve got to get ready to face another week—

jerk off twice and go to sleep.

 

In dreams, I’ve ridden waves of purest jubilation.

Then they burst, and I return to my current situation,

which has stretched since before I can really recall,

but don’t we all forget where we stall?

 

We don’t see the repetition

until we’re beaten to submission.

Then we compensate with competition

so at least we can say we’re better than the next man.

 

I just want to be better than ten years prior.

Back then, I was depressed, and now, I’m depressed

because I still haven’t accessed

an emotion with which I’ve been obsessed.

 

But no one gives a damn if I have what I seek.

It’s probably my destiny to remain incomplete,

always turning to tomorrow like it won’t be a repeat—

jerk off twice and go to sleep.

 

I’m tired of forces beyond my control

thwarting my attempts to achieve my goal.

I’m tired of people who have what I crave

smiling and laughing to rub it in my face.

 

I’m tired of my lack of human interaction,

though rarely does talking bring me satisfaction.

I’m tired of friendships that feel superficial.

There has to be more than work, food, and travel.

 

I’m tired of being unloved outside of my family.

I keep asking no one, “What do they want from me?”

I’m tired of my perfectly rational misery.

I wish I had the kind where a drug was a remedy.

 

But no one gives a damn if I have what I seek.

I may be tired, but forever onward I shall keep—

although, for today, I accept my defeat—

jerk off twice and go to sleep.


 

Skies

My

Skies are going dark

But I am not afraid

The stars go on for miles and miles and miles

 

The same hammer and nails

Can build a coffin or a home

When all is said and done

It's what you make out of what you have

 

The stars up in the sky

Were never meant to be a guide

It's the stories that we made

That turned them into constellations

At Your Best

So now you’re overwhelmed.

It seems your world has gone to hell.

You don’t know where to start to make it right.

Stressed out, deprived of sleep,

you’re in a rut and in too deep.

You think your flag will soon be turning white.

 

It looks like you’re beyond repair,

and all your friends don’t seem to care,

but that’s because we’ve all been there.

 

Falling apart,

realizing life is hard,

but it’s not hard to find an easy way.

If you resort

to cut it short,

then—you’ll miss the better days.

 

Don’t try to look for an escape.

There’s not a pill that you can take

to make your problems disappear.

And don’t delay what must be done.

Just make a list and one by one,

you’ll find the way to persevere.

 

It looks like you’re beyond repair,

and all your friends don’t seem to care,

but that’s because we’ve all been there.

 

Falling apart,

realizing life is hard,

but it’s not hard to find an easy way.

If you resort

to cut it short,

then—you’ll miss the better days.

 

You’re bound to be depressed

if you expect to have success

at everything you try.

You’re never at your best

until the day you face a test

so painful that it makes you want to die.

 

It looks like you’re beyond repair,

and no one really seems to care,

but that’s because we’ve all been there.

 

Falling apart,

realizing life is hard,

but it’s not hard to find an easy way.

If you resort

to cut it short,

then—you’ll miss the better days.


 

Meliorism

 We’re all going down

Whether it be in history or six feet underground

So go and capture what you’re after

time is wasting, time is wasting

 

We’re capable

Of so much more

 

We’ve seen it all before

Searching for an angel who is never gonna be born

And we’re up in arms with heavy hearts for once

To create the things we hoped to stumble upon

 

We’re capable

Of so much more

 

We’ll build paradise from dust and ashes

We’ve seen sacrifice with no reward

Reward

We’ll build paradise for ourselves

 

Nothing stays the same

The only constant is that things are bound to change

We’re turning words from parables

To moral skylines and better lifetimes

 

We’re capable

Of so much more

 

We’ll build paradise from dust and ashes

We’ve seen sacrifice with no reward

Reward

We’ll build paradise for ourselves

Back to the Garden

There once was a garden we stumbled upon and picked clean.

Then we ripped out the vines and planted pastures for cattle.

Then the cattle picked the pastures clean.

Then we slaughtered the cattle and picked their bones clean.

 

Th­­­en we paved the land and set up a strip mall

with an overpriced grocery store

selling little bars of soap infused with lavender and coconut

so we can scrub ourselves clean

 

when the guilt of progress builds up

like skyscrapers, amphitheaters, and megachurches

where a man says he heard that there used to be a garden,

but the sins we committed when we were unaware

 

made us undeserving and left us exiled.

Now our only chance to get back to the garden

is in another dimension after we die,

or so says the man who never looks down when he kneels.

 

We still have the seeds.

We just have to dig through the concrete and the asphalt,

through the sludge and the smog we try to ignore,

through the pervasion of the world as we know it—

 

until we hit the soil waiting on revival—

waiting for us to quit waiting on the garden.