A Dead Man

I don’t want to make a promise to a dead man.
I don’t have to make a promise to a dead man.
You can’t make me keep a promise to a dead man.
There’s no harm to break a promise to a dead man.

Man, I can’t imagine this actually fucking mattered to you.
I know your heart was shattered so I grant you some latitude.
But how you gonna saddle me with slapstick and platitudes,
evacuate the map and make me maximally mad at you?
I’m not obliging in the best of conditions,
so spare your moralizing if you don’t respect my decisions.
I restore a kind of normalcy in light of attrition
If I ignore the way it tortures me to grapple an apparition.
I’m haunted.
I know we’re all kinda haunted,
but some may be more than others.
Example: me and my brothers.
I’m never free of this vehemence; I don’t hear your rebuttals.
But I see reprieve between my fear and subtle defiance.
I recognize relying on trying to flee is timeless;
if it means that I’m spineless that’s fine
I’ll find a psychiatrist if I need to have time with it.
Until then I consign it to the back of my mind.

That’s why I’ll never make a promise to a dead man.
Don’t want to think about a promise with a dead man.
I’ll never have to keep a promise to a dead man.
Won’t have my peace of mind disrupted by a dead man.

Man, I frickin wish I could forget your little pitiful writ,
in which you tried to stick me with some insignificant shit.
If you could get your mind off yourself for a minute, you could have figured it was imminent that I was considered a grown man,
picking plane tickets and phone plans.
You could have witnessed it instead of bridging the River Styx,
but couldn’t stick it out enough to listen to Foam Hands.
(I think you might have liked it, oh man.)
But since you been gone I got a cold stone heart:
me and you or your memory steadily grown apart.
So you won’t catch me regretfully moaning.
That’s correct: effective starting now I’m rejecting extra emotion.
Truthfully, what the hell did it ever do for me?
Mentally uprooted, induced me to act stupidly?
And it’s tomfoolery how you want me to mourn you.
Well true love regrets to inform you that…

I don’t have to make a promise to a dead man.
You can’t make me make a promise to a dead man.
I think I’ll never make a promise to a dead man.
And I guess I’ll never understand what made a dead man
a dead man.

Man, I guess that your perspective was compressed to ’bout the size of a molecule.
Depression is oppressive when it festers in solitude.
And I was never best at impressions of solidarity.
The mess in my chest, yeah: I see it with total clarity.
I don’t need to be told that I did nothing to help you:
every time you tried to put a feeler out I repelled you,
every deal I made myself to be a healer had fell through,
and now I’m gonna seal away the feelings expelled too.
But it was never my job to be my father’s keeper.
Yeah, I could say you’re with God, but I’m a nonbeliever.
And you were too, so let’s dispense with the fantasies
of gentle zephyr breezes and canopies or whatever.
’Cause what’s the fucking point of living in Xanadu
when living with yourself is the last thing that you plan to do?
I guess that feeling nothing is all that you really wanted.
(I told you, I know I’m not the only one that’s haunted.)
I guess we’re not so different, you and I:
compounding our emotional interest until it’s do or die.
But whereas you decided on taking the latter,
I’m’a fake it for a decade then I’m breaking the pattern.

And that’s the only promise that I’m making to you, dead man.