A Broadcast

It’s that special kind of quiet
Where one might be concerned
But even with this silence
My voice can be misheard
So I’ll sweep the floors
For the ghosts who now reside
The ones who came before
Who never chose a side
I’ll power through the night
For some kind of victory
It’s not pretty, this vulgar life
I’m airing constantly
I’ll get my fill of praise
And taste that bitter love
I guess I’m still afraid
For when you’ve had enough
The sooner my senses leave
The burden I have will go
And the golden boy can be
Paraded down below
… and down, I’ll go