To young to hold my hand, she doesn't think of the end of her life.I dont think, she even understands that she is separate from her mother. She doesn't know she will be the object of objectification, by men obsessed with their compulsions. Only in the near future.
You know, you think you are justified in your impulses. But what you find out, is you are stuck in a world that has limits and boundries and set definitions. And before you can declare your reality, even if you acknowledge it as fantasy, your head is spun around by gravity.
And some people just keep spinning and spinning.
And some sit like silent silhouettes, not moving, not breathing. terrified of being.
They wait for their name to be called, for their stomachs to be certain.
But, I can tell you about the man I am, from the bloodshot eyes,
Not from drugs, but from sleepless nights. Hurling up whats left of the torrent in my stomach.
Too much time spent in that ocean...
Sure, I told you that man is not mortal, but my, how he can break. He crumbles and brings himself upon the steps of the institution he hates. He paints his own world black and gray, and all he knows is this current that his selfishness holds him in. And finally, as he develops his illusion, wraps it in power and holds it with love, it grows and feeds on him and his family. The illusion is a symbiote and the man will grow in attachment, he will wear it as a mask, and his identity is stolen.
But its name is not the name that i bear. But his name eludes my lips, cause I to busy putting forth my own definitions. But my heart is sealed for him. I am truly his. That is my foremost definition.
And I get very tired of living my way. Wish I could be rid of this...
I dont know how to get rid of this.
The champ and sentry will like this weeks musical selections. Maybe Blackbird too.
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