We're Your Age was printed on recycled materials by Bellwether Manufacturing. It includes a double-sided fold-out "mini-poster" and you will also receive a sticker. HANDMADE LYRICS BOOKS ARE NO MORE!! We're Your Age is Anti-Swag Fiend Party's first full-length release and has 12 tracks.
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edition of 500
Never affected. Seem cool calm collected, but closer inspected my head’s a fuckin’ wreck, kid. It’s unexpected. Not many have heard this, but turbulence boils under this placid surface. This hostility is still in me, been fillin’ me for years. It builds in me. It’s killin’ me, but releasing I fear. Or maybe I should say I’ve got a distaste for it. Naw, fuck that. Conflict? I straight up abhor it. I’m shaken to the soul on this hook so long I feel at home it’s all I know. Amygdala full of land mines, I proceed cautious. Can’t upset my arms, they’re already feelin’ nauseous. Watch this: the degradation of man. The show is free, but I’ll take donations if ya can. Feels like I’m livin’ my whole damn life on the fence. Maybe Charlie was right, “No sense makes sense." ‘Cause if there’s one thing I’ve learned about this world it’s that it’s tricky. The heartless live forever while the good die quickly. You wonder why I walk around lookin’ so sickly? 'Cause this fucked up world can change on ya instantly. Mind and surrounding now fine, it’s astounding, one misstep, with quickness, problems start compounding. Internal, external, one moment it’s swell. Then, one loses balance, it all becomes hell. Oh woe, boo-hoo, ‘nother suburban kid cryin’. Might seem better off, but I’m still livin’, still dyin’. Middle class family, lower class mindframe. Financial headaches turn to capitalist migraines. Divin’ headfirst into a future of debt and I’m not even sure what I’m doin’ it for yet. Workin’ so damn hard for this so-called education. What’s the fuckin’ point, do I need one more complication?
I’m convinced, though, that age is just a state of mind, a mental space where my footsteps race to reach my prime. I’m convinced though, that I’m completely out of line like I made it to the end before I knew it was my time. I’m convinced, though, that everything will still be fine. At least that’s what I say, though I know that it’s a lie. I’m convinced, though, that I’m about to plummet. I can feel it in my stomach, but maybe I’m just losing it.
I'm never who you thought you met, cast from a different crew and set, cold, alone, not much more than bone, the product of a mixed up home. In a world where you thought that you what you bought, a lie that I fought, but they never get caught. On my knees, but I breath, though I'd rather that I leave. It's rough and I can't help but keep it on my sleeve. I'm just a brick wall, still and cold, red flesh beneath my skin that wears as I grow old. It's just a sick world, trying and dying, we fill it with our speech and each one of us is lying. When the metaphysical becomes physical and your chest reaches a plane between pain and existential it's critical that you STOP. I know it hurts a lot. Was it your family losing their sanity? Was it real love or was it in the club? Could I whisper to the dancer that I'm just another cancer? If she doesn't want the answers, I'd be more than pleased to take her. All my friends say they're worried about me, but I'm still in one piece, at least I am physically, but suffer from BPD. You don't need to try to scare us because we're already scared in the face of all the world offers, all that's too much to bear. LEAVE ME BE. I don't need to be taken anywhere, unless it's to a state of perdition, in which case I'm already there.
There's a fine line between borderline and being out of your mind, but I think I'm fine. Would it be a crime if I let it out in rhyme at the expense of you worrying all the time? Whatever doesn't kill you make you want to die a little more and care less to discover what we're even here for. I've got sad marks on my body parts, the crossroads of depression and epidermal art. There's too much you can't tell your friends. This is a place where all meets end. So, my friendships are burning. Their nurture is hurting and while all this is concerning my life keeps worsening.
(I’m convinced, though, that age is just a state of mind, a mental space where my footsteps race to reach my prime. I’m convinced though, that I’m completely out of line like I made it to the end before I knew it was my time. I'm convinced, though, that I'm not worth adoring. When I asked you for death, all you gave me was the morning. I'm convinced, though, that this is all just for the best because even though I'm still this way, I haven't yet lost my breath.)