Why? - This Blackest Purse lyrics

I'm not who, with my eyes from stage I claim to be I've only cradled d**h in my own ending Flesh from far off and abstracted lit Candle wick flickering 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 Fact: the poseur in the bowler gets shot first Thinks he's the sh** 'cause he can spit and curse Acting brash and flashing 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? (Mom, am I failing?) What should these earnest hands be holding? Still sporting my ex-girlfriend's dead ex-boyfriend's boxers I want to operate from a base of hunger No longer be ashamed and hide my Tears in shower water, while I lather for pleasure I want to 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 moving after church Faking he's hard like he's 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? (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? (Mom, am I failing?) What should these earnest hands be holding?