I hear the voice, once again,
Ignoring the world with the help of music and memories less than fortunate.
It's reminding me,
That's it not so bad to open up.
Some call it emotional masochism,
But the same circle calls chance by a personal name.
The same type of people that want to believe that their world is orderly,
And more importantly, ordered by them.
This is not a pain!
This is not settling.
This is me opening up old scabbed over wounds.
Questions hurt foundations,
Real questions, that is.
They throw you off of your pedestal so cemented,
And people remember the fall.
The agony associated with the chaos.
But they forget what they remember when they fall:
That this world,
As we call it,
is more aptly a scene.
It's manufactured.
Our consent, our relationships, our ideas.
These are all arrived at through careful planning,
Planning that goes on outside of your mind.
The fall,
It purges us.
It starts to chip out the mortar.
It starts making holes for our truer selves to peek through,
To get reacquainted with the light,
To yearn for that sweet mistake,
To long for the guilt of free actions coupled with the consequences.
People say destruction is a bad thing?
I'm not inclined to believe.
I have a hard time walking by a skyscraper without kicking it.
It may seem futile,
But it's the start,
Not the end,
That matters more.

---

They call me a dreamer.
And they say my cause is a lost one.
They will preach anything just to convince me I'm wrong.
To convince people that we will beat Nature.
That we will overcome these limitations,
That we are more powerful than rivers,
Than we don't need any other specie.
That we are better than the sun.
They are not stopping to think, nor thinking about stopping.
When the truth is clear, and it always have been.
But most have turned into something we could hardly call men.
Seems they've forgot how to listen.
And we can't afford to ignore Nature for much longer.
We can't afford to ignore the call of mother Earth.
We need to overgrow our egos once more and embrace life.
How many failures will it take for people to realize,
We cannot escape the consequences of our actions?
If we cannot create it, we should no longer destroy it.
This is our last chance to make it.
To prove that we are not dead inside.
So come with me, lets fly till the night arrives.
Haven't you heard before the rhythm of the pure morning breeze?
Life is waiting for you to forget the city lights,
To go into the open space, were you both finally meet, and dance.
Maybe then you'll be able to feel it, and understand this:
We are all in this together, without each other we won't be able to stand.
Because there's no river without sun.
There's no trees without water.
There's no air to breath without trees,
And air is something we.still.can't.live.without.

---

The anatomy of sorrow.

My heart is set aflame,
Burning away slowly at the feet of my soul.
The years that are to come and have gone have taken their toll all at once,
In a great strike of the blacksmith's hammer,
The hammer of Fate herself,
Upon a not yet tempered,
Malleable and uncertain path.
I can feel the shockwaves,
And my eyes cannot escape the devastation of letters,
Of those sharp sentences that jump up in plains all around me.
Tears leap from my gaze,
Causing me to see how more scars are born.
I feel the leper's ache,
Through an intimacy with a healthy mind imprisoning a plagued heart.
My stomach is a pit that shares a kindred spirit with the pauper's lust,
For enough to suffice,
Enough to fuel the act we call living.
My back is scarred, though.
Is beaten down,
Walked across,
Like the path you tentatively breach.
My legs give out,
With the weight of the world transferred to me from the slaves of all mankind
Since the begging of time.
My hands and eyes are old and weathered,
Too old for this young body,
From catching the tears of frustration and hopelessness.
I am your voodoo doll:
Every word that exits your intentionally thickened lips penetrates my skin,
Reaches deep into my being,
And stabs me where it knows how to hurt.

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