Without Strings.
4/20/04
Knife to cord now,
just don't you tempt me.
Neither one of us will die,
but it will kill us just the same.
Neither one of us will die,
but all between us will.
Every game between us,
every role we've played.
Every verbal and non-verbal
weapon we used,
and every mask
we've made.
And as the years have grown,
the blade begins to sink in,
and I get to thinking:
I found a backwards way out that
first hole, but I made it.
If I've got to fumble my way out of
this cell, I will, don't you doubt it.
I'm so sick of our manipulations,
nauseated at how you make me feel guilty,
nauseated at how I turn my back on me.
I hate how I reek of dependency
and how you get high off of stepping on me
as I get my fix from hating your oppression
as I choke on the muck of the grotesque
emotions swamping me.
I'm worn from dying in this
room inside my head
with the walls caving in.
I'm sick of boiling in this
womb, like some frog being
slowly brought to his death,
but I got some balls growing in
and some vertebrae.
My finger, pointing in blame, it's
sore from drilling into you,
but there's another one next door,
waiting in line for you,
pointing high to the sky,
where I'm destined to fly, and I can
already see the fear you've
secretly concealed all these years,
brought to the foreground in your eyes,
and you stare into mine,
as the hierarchy dissolves,
as under-dog and top-dog lose their meaning,
and you see an equal
standing before you,
graduated from son to man, pronouncing
a confident `No' to the dragon you've become,
blissfully crying `Yes' to himself,
blissfully crying a `Yes' to life,
and leaving one last choice for you,
one fateful opportunity to cross this
bridge between us or burn it.
The knife is in your hand,
the cord I severed is
in the ground between us both.
Could you love me without
the power your
subtle manipulations bring?
Or would you
sever the land,
unable to see me
without strings?
4/20/04
Knife to cord now,
just don't you tempt me.
Neither one of us will die,
but it will kill us just the same.
Neither one of us will die,
but all between us will.
Every game between us,
every role we've played.
Every verbal and non-verbal
weapon we used,
and every mask
we've made.
And as the years have grown,
the blade begins to sink in,
and I get to thinking:
I found a backwards way out that
first hole, but I made it.
If I've got to fumble my way out of
this cell, I will, don't you doubt it.
I'm so sick of our manipulations,
nauseated at how you make me feel guilty,
nauseated at how I turn my back on me.
I hate how I reek of dependency
and how you get high off of stepping on me
as I get my fix from hating your oppression
as I choke on the muck of the grotesque
emotions swamping me.
I'm worn from dying in this
room inside my head
with the walls caving in.
I'm sick of boiling in this
womb, like some frog being
slowly brought to his death,
but I got some balls growing in
and some vertebrae.
My finger, pointing in blame, it's
sore from drilling into you,
but there's another one next door,
waiting in line for you,
pointing high to the sky,
where I'm destined to fly, and I can
already see the fear you've
secretly concealed all these years,
brought to the foreground in your eyes,
and you stare into mine,
as the hierarchy dissolves,
as under-dog and top-dog lose their meaning,
and you see an equal
standing before you,
graduated from son to man, pronouncing
a confident `No' to the dragon you've become,
blissfully crying `Yes' to himself,
blissfully crying a `Yes' to life,
and leaving one last choice for you,
one fateful opportunity to cross this
bridge between us or burn it.
The knife is in your hand,
the cord I severed is
in the ground between us both.
Could you love me without
the power your
subtle manipulations bring?
Or would you
sever the land,
unable to see me
without strings?
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