Small Victories

by Frameworks

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1.
02:25
2.
02:58
3.
02:56
4.
02:43

about

Small Victories was released February 12th via 13th Floor Records


Lyrics:

1. Ida

I wouldn’t feel a thing. Detached in my own perpetual state where everything ceaselessly stays in its place. In the yellow walls I secure my own stay. The defining line of love and hate would bleed so fine becoming the same. All the wiles would catch my own feet, costing a limb just to set myself free, and I wouldn’t feel a thing. In my hell I’d play all my banes. Conversations with who I could have been. Slitting the wrists of the hands of the clock. Stitching the wrists of the hands of the clock. Year after year after year. I’d get what I deserve. Complacent and fully aware, ceaselessly year after year after year. I’d get what I deserve.

2. Sewn

All vacant, all despondent. I’m the same bitter sense of ccomplishments mistaken and pawned as a false sense of courage. Wills stretched so thin, misconstrued and bent. We can swing for the fences, but distance is still distance. Piece by piece we chip and flake. Stitch and stitch, but never sew anything. Piece by piece, chip away, feel the same. Watching my reflection turn into someone great, ascending the ranks of my own personal hierarchy, never occurred and will never defer me from digging my own hole inch by inch. Traded in my spine for a gut of guilt. Wore it just the same, as if no one could tell. Wear it just the same, nobody can tell. Always wanting, never earning something more. No straight road ever carved my content heart. Choked up on all my own swallowed pride. Throwing myself down the stairs of my life. I can’t help myself. Any part of me.

3. Model Homes

Misery resides where misery is welcome. It’s all mine to wallow or welcome in. Into my life, an unwanted ownership. Nothing moves me, and everyone’s well aware. A drink to cope, a drink to think, a drink to sleep it off, to any calling concern that I know that I don’t deserve. Drown in the fluid ounce of every word. Smiled through every blur. Life’s a labor but a greater war. I’ve only known the texture of its floor. Clawing through small scratches in the surface. What we once held dear becomes our torment. Temporary fix or not, a fix is still a fix. Falling through all the holes that we’ve torn up. What we once held dear becomes our torment. Temporary fix or not, a fix is still a fix. Now it’s gone, and I’m back to this. But now you’re gone, and I’ll raise my glass and drink the ceilings in. And try to make these walls less thin. Or every thought of you drowns out.

4. Old Chokes

Withering in gardens left dry. I’m still soaked from their old chokes. Oh, what a mess I’ve made now. Oh, what a mess of things I’ve made. It’s such a shame; all that dirt couldn’t grow. I put the blame all on the shine and less the soil. We must wilt away if we wish to someday grow, but I’ve wilted and waned over and over. The soil is as far as I can go. That night I lied awake thinking over things. So fixed and quick to burst into blame at any loss of control, without sense of self. It shrouds and distills; it stings and it welts. Though all our plans were dense with trees, I discerned only leaves that were brittle and creased. As I just lied awake overthinking things, life still went on with or without.

credits

released 12 February 2013

Trumpet on "Old Chokes" played by Alec Prorock of Polyenso
Recorded at Glow In The Dark Studios by Matt McClellan

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Track Name: Ida
I wouldn’t feel a thing. Detached in my own perpetual state where everything ceaselessly stays in its place. In the yellow walls I secure my own stay. The defining line of love and hate would bleed so fine becoming the same. All the wiles would catch my own feet, costing a limb just to set myself free, and I wouldn’t feel a thing. In my hell I’d play all my banes. Conversations with who I could have been. Slitting the wrists of the hands of the clock. Stitching the wrists of the hands of the clock. Year after year after year. I’d get what I deserve. Complacent and fully aware, ceaselessly year after year after year. I’d get what I deserve.
Track Name: Sewn
All vacant, all despondent. I’m the same bitter sense of accomplishments mistaken and pawned as a false sense of courage. Wills stretched so thin, misconstrued and bent. We can swing for the fences, but distance is still distance. Piece by piece we chip and flake. Stitch and stitch, but never sew anything. Piece by piece, chip away, feel the same. Watching my reflection turn into someone great, ascending the ranks of my own personal hierarchy, never occurred and will never defer me from digging my own hole inch by inch. Traded in my spine for a gut of guilt. Wore it just the same, as if no one could tell. Wear it just the same, nobody can tell. Always wanting, never earning something more. No straight road ever carved my content heart. Choked up on all my own swallowed pride. Throwing myself down the stairs of my life. I can’t help myself. Any part of me.
Track Name: Model Homes
Misery resides where misery is welcome. It’s all mine to wallow or welcome in. Into my life, an unwanted ownership. Nothing moves me, and everyone’s well aware. A drink to cope, a drink to think, a drink to sleep it off, to any calling concern that I know that I don’t deserve. Drown in the fluid ounce of every word. Smiled through every blur. Life’s a labor but a greater war. I’ve only known the texture of its floor. Clawing through small scratches in the surface. What we once held dear becomes our torment. Temporary fix or not, a fix is still a fix. Falling through all the holes that we’ve torn up. What we once held dear becomes our torment. Temporary fix or not, a fix is still a fix. Now it’s gone, and I’m back to this. But now you’re gone, and I’ll raise my glass and drink the ceilings in. And try to make these walls less thin. Or every thought of you drowns out.
Track Name: Old Chokes
Withering in gardens left dry. I’m still soaked from their old chokes. Oh, what a mess I’ve made now. Oh, what a mess of things I’ve made. It’s such a shame; all that dirt couldn’t grow. I put the blame all on the shine and less the soil. We must wilt away if we wish to someday grow, but I’ve wilted and waned over and over. The soil is as far as I can go. That night I lied awake thinking over things. So fixed and quick to burst into blame at any loss of control, without sense of self. It shrouds and distills; it stings and it welts. Though all our plans were dense with trees, I discerned only leaves that were brittle and creased. As I just lied awake overthinking things, life still went on with or without.