Scout Ant

[verse, dry and detached, clinical tone, slowly loosening] Like the scout ant, programmed — feeding the hungry queen. Everything a tool. The one knowing itself in the many. But the object became subject when really — it was always just the movement.

[pre-chorus, glitchy erratic rhythm, unhinged not cute] Glitter brain. Misguided SAY-krul energy. A whim intent to touch every shore — scatters in the wind. Gone thin. Again. [sung moan, resolving into wry detachment] Ohh, the weight of this drama.

[chorus, hushed breathy, restrained, intimate close-mic] He is convincing. Theatrical. Charming. Almost sensual —[micro pause before] the way he tickles the innocent child in me, waking a hunger with no name.

[breath, light airy, sardonic, dry laugh underneath] All of it — pretty silly, really. A drop of insanity, laughing from the inside while standing outside, looking in.

[verse, wry, conversational, self-aware] Another door. Another no. It's always when I think I have to get it right that I get it wrong. That's where the performance becomes the act.

[bridge, sparse, strip back, tender floating, naked delivery] I finally know what it feels like to die — while living. Just the story dies. And with it — the narration.

[outro, breathy falsetto, barely voiced, bone dry, no reverb] Freedom to feel myself. To explore without a shore. One.[almost nothing, smallest possible voice] Oh — and in flow. Just an ant. Who knew.