This Blackest Purse

I'm not who with my eyes from stage I claim to be
 I've only cradled death in my own ending flesh
 From far off in abstracted lit
 Candle wick flickering
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 And when a thing starts finishing around me
 I faint or fake a mustache, an accent or flee
 In fear my expired license be pulled by sheer proximity
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 Fact:
 The poser in the bowler gets shot first
 Thinks he's the shit 'cause he can spit and curse
 Acting brash and flashin' a pistol that squirts
 Scowling
 And shouting
 "Shall we dance?"
 Should our hero's hands be holding this blackest purse?
 Mom am I failing or worse?
 Mom am I failing?
 What should these earnest hands be holding?
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 Still sportin' my ex-girlfriend's dead ex-boyfriend's boxers
 I wanna operate from a base of hunger
 No longer be ashamed and hide my
 Tears in shower water while I
 Lather for pleasure
 I wanna speak at an intimate decibel
 With the precision of an infinite decimal
 To listen up and send back a true echo
 Of something forever felt but never heard
 I want that sharpened steel of truth in every word
 The small fry in the bow tie dies first
 Acting wild like the spirit of God movin' after church
 Fakin' he's hard like packed-down dirt
 Already
 And yelling
 "Be my guest!"
 Should our hero's hands be holding this blackest purse?
 Mom am I failing or worse?
 Mom am I failing?
 What should these earnest hands be holding?
 Should our hero's hands be holding this blackest purse?
 Mom am I failing or worse?
 Mom am I failing?
 What should these earnest hands be holding?