Post by Whimsical||MUSE; on Sept 17, 2011 12:54:18 GMT -5
Is this how we do?
Has the weather become the staple of our emotions?
Our foundations formed on secrets and misgivings,
on the motion of the clouds? Do we shake?
Or simply moan, as the coldness of asphalt pierces through my bones?
Have we lost the knack of it already? So soon?
To be so close, our breath can be braided, our souls closer,
and closer --
yet this skin you touch, is it really me?
Or has the ground lifted away and left only the shell behind?
Is this the shell you touch and smother?
The shell you fill up -- I've become a puppet, perhaps.
But the emptiness remains.
The darkness remains in my heart, even as it fills to bursting with your affections.
What do you see? What image portrays, what role parades?
Have I lost myself in the dark maze of your eyes?
Have we done this again, already, so soon?
Do I cling to things I'll never have, things I can never really touch?
Smother everything with my hands.
Smother you.
Kill you. Or me. Or everything. Even God is laughing.
Ah -- a murderess remains
and the little girl still cannot understand the meaning
in our words.
Poor thing, poor thing -- we'll give her a snack later
and hope she'll take a nap.
Maybe she'll forget the screaming and the yelling,
forget the pain of misunderstandings, and the loneliness
of the moat that separates us all from her quietly reaching hands.
Sh, sh-- she's sleeping now.
We cannot disturb the little peace she can find
built on lies and sins and everything dark in between.
Has the weather become the staple of our emotions?
Our foundations formed on secrets and misgivings,
on the motion of the clouds? Do we shake?
Or simply moan, as the coldness of asphalt pierces through my bones?
Have we lost the knack of it already? So soon?
To be so close, our breath can be braided, our souls closer,
and closer --
yet this skin you touch, is it really me?
Or has the ground lifted away and left only the shell behind?
Is this the shell you touch and smother?
The shell you fill up -- I've become a puppet, perhaps.
But the emptiness remains.
The darkness remains in my heart, even as it fills to bursting with your affections.
What do you see? What image portrays, what role parades?
Have I lost myself in the dark maze of your eyes?
Have we done this again, already, so soon?
Do I cling to things I'll never have, things I can never really touch?
Smother everything with my hands.
Smother you.
Kill you. Or me. Or everything. Even God is laughing.
Ah -- a murderess remains
and the little girl still cannot understand the meaning
in our words.
Poor thing, poor thing -- we'll give her a snack later
and hope she'll take a nap.
Maybe she'll forget the screaming and the yelling,
forget the pain of misunderstandings, and the loneliness
of the moat that separates us all from her quietly reaching hands.
Sh, sh-- she's sleeping now.
We cannot disturb the little peace she can find
built on lies and sins and everything dark in between.