Murder in Apartment 30

Never let the acoustics of a bathroom

fool you into thinking you can keep time and tune.

I tell you, I can kill it on the shampoo bottle

and I call it murder in Apartment 30

because I decimate the soap-scum stage.


Whims and wishes walk on the promenades of our minds,

reinforced and Kevlar after incessant mullings,

yet they come out as gossamer shawls when we open our mouths;

the greatest conversations I’ve ever had have been in my head,

the best comebacks, the surest arguments, the softest nothings

whispered by ghosts with faces I know, I desire,

but those conversations just don’t happen outside of Apartment 30.


Yeah, I could let adolescent life punch itself tired

as I hug the ropes, sweating and grinning at the coming opportunity,

but you can’t sign record deals and own the stage

if you don’t step out there in the first place.

But my voice outside of Apartment 30 gets lost in the wind,

I stand in line with people whose hands are shoved in pockets

and shoulders hunched to combat that frigid breath

forced out from a god who begs us to bask in the stimulus

and sing outside of the bathroom but we deny it

and deny it

and I want so badly for someone to begin the song

because somewhere along the way I’ll pick up the second verse

that’ll turn into a duetted chorus and we’ll murder it

inside and out of Apartment 30.