My head aches, my heart ahces, my soul aches, and it's all because of you. It's childish, but I blame you. It's insane to point a finger at someone, something, that so many say cannot exist, save for some illusion construed by my diseased mind, but the figner is fixed. I hate you for all of this. For all time. And try as I might, I cannot let go.
When the time comes I would rather fall, give into gravity, take my own weight than grab the hand you offer. I'd chance standing on my own, rather than falling to my knees. And if you shoot out my legs, I'll crawl away as I curse you, hate you, and throw rocks at you.
This is a bad dream but eutopian in comparison to what you have in mind, the stew brewing in your dead, cold, black eyes. People here are suffering. I see them everyday, in the kitchen downstairs, driving by me on the way to work, working beside me, coming in to consume. They feel the lack of reason this place is plagued with. The uncertainty of this stage. And you steal from them. Exploit them. Ignore thier desperate cries for help, in echoes you must catch in your greedy, complex minds, with your mental satellites up so high.
You hold your hope and offer it to me. You ask me to feed it. To nurture it. Stick it back in that jar, in that nursery. I don't care what I spawned from. I don't care to hear your allegations of my connections. Truth is relative. And it's important to know, but I value the future more than the past, and in the mind you have and push into mine you've raped both for me. The horror of the past, your plans for the future. Two lines merging into one, and you hold the pen. You guide the hand. Well, you cannot push me. I belong nowhere, and I belong to no one but myself. And I'll find myself, I'll re-make myself, and far before the sky chips away the bigger peices.
You offer your hand, and I hold up mine, palm toward my face, it's back turned to you, and ask you once more to read between the lines, because that's where you've left me.
That's all I leave for you.
When the time comes I would rather fall, give into gravity, take my own weight than grab the hand you offer. I'd chance standing on my own, rather than falling to my knees. And if you shoot out my legs, I'll crawl away as I curse you, hate you, and throw rocks at you.
This is a bad dream but eutopian in comparison to what you have in mind, the stew brewing in your dead, cold, black eyes. People here are suffering. I see them everyday, in the kitchen downstairs, driving by me on the way to work, working beside me, coming in to consume. They feel the lack of reason this place is plagued with. The uncertainty of this stage. And you steal from them. Exploit them. Ignore thier desperate cries for help, in echoes you must catch in your greedy, complex minds, with your mental satellites up so high.
You hold your hope and offer it to me. You ask me to feed it. To nurture it. Stick it back in that jar, in that nursery. I don't care what I spawned from. I don't care to hear your allegations of my connections. Truth is relative. And it's important to know, but I value the future more than the past, and in the mind you have and push into mine you've raped both for me. The horror of the past, your plans for the future. Two lines merging into one, and you hold the pen. You guide the hand. Well, you cannot push me. I belong nowhere, and I belong to no one but myself. And I'll find myself, I'll re-make myself, and far before the sky chips away the bigger peices.
You offer your hand, and I hold up mine, palm toward my face, it's back turned to you, and ask you once more to read between the lines, because that's where you've left me.
That's all I leave for you.
