Crutch

Exaggerations and impulse fill the air, we feel like its the end of the world. We feel like we have one last moment to actually live.

Your heart begs you to stop, Im turning at the sight of my own skin.

But through and through we've devised a way to damn ourselves.

Every lie builds upon the previous, making the day darker, the water colder, the music duller.

And in all that pain, you don't believe I love you.

You don't believe I love you.

Everyday, I hear your ghost-like voice whisper, "I'm drowning in a cesspool of hate and fear" I hear the most beautiful girl I know tell me that she was made for "darkness and tragedy" That Gods word wasn't spoken into existence for her. That my hands were not made to lift her up, nor my eyes to shine into her life.

I was not born with poor eyes, I can see in the dark. Always been able to do that.
I would watch other children quiver in the dark, A light must be turned on, lest those monsters capture them. And its not that I thought there weren't monsters.

I just knew I could kill them.

I still know they're there. I still know I can kill them.

But for the life of me, I cannot kill hers. Honestly, I'm running on a powerless desperation and I spill more blood than I can save. It consumes my mind, fills hours of my day, thinking about how to recreate her world.
She knows what I would say before I say it, she knows how to decipher text and conquer fear. But my lips offer more than words of truth. Other things besides the truth.
Yes, I am a twisted giant. My neck is in knots, and my hymns come out as blasphemy. My touch is filled with riddles and my heart is stained with self-indulgence. I've pushed my hands through windows, and broken dreams out of frustration. I stay up too late trying to get back to whatever I was, and I just spend all that time wondering what the hell I'm trying to accomplish.
I stay up, wishing upon a white box.

They seem to want a more productive machine. Taking as little input and giving maximum output.
Sometimes, it seems thats what she wants. Or at least what anyone would ask of me.
And my incompetence has created resentment.

For every arm I stretch out towards victory, there a voice behind me reminding me of that resentment. So I cower under a dull gaze. And my light goes out with a quiet whimper.
As I hide, the water stops flowing, and I look for a place to bury my head.
My breath gets shallow.

And I trade out truth for a memory of a glimmer,
I get something in my eyes, but its more of a black film than a shining clarity. How could I lead you like that? How could I show you what is truly beautiful if all I see is black?


I am just a crutch. And the longer you hold on to me, the slower it will take to heal.
I will refuse, shout, proclaim my anger to the heavens, if you do not heal.
You were made for my dreams.
I believe that.
To fight with me in battles that those other men couldn't believe, wouldn't believe we could fight.
To conquer mountains that seemed insurmountable.

But If I lack substance, If I deny what is sacred and am consumed by my skin, how am I to fight this war?
How are you to fight this war, with me clinging at your waist, waiting for you to lead me out of this mess?



I cannot wait to climb that mountain. But I can't wait to see you on top of yours.
You cannot follow me up this struggle. And I cannot keep you from yours.
I love you too much to just let die.
I just wonder how to truly let you live.


Lord, it all hurts.
 I dont know how this will work.
Please fix this.
Redeem this.
Only you can.
Help us fulfill our destinies.