THE HAND THAT FEEDS

   I change my ink to change what I see,
an empty page is a dead canvas to me.
   So I force myself into the dark,
to take out the words in between all this
sorrow that I hold.

I bite the hand that feeds, for I don't wish
to eat, whats the point of eating if I'm not
allowed to breath?

   I manipulate my soul, no longer carved
from stone, but only flesh and blood with a
delicate frame of bones.
   I'm weaker than your wish, I keep my body
in a bony frailty just to I could hold on to the
wind.

But I'm still heavy enough to shake the heavens,
I'm strong enough to shut hells doors,
wanting only to find a simple space in between
that's not made of just dust and stone.

I bite the hand that feeds just for me to see,
if the hand that reaches out to me, still
bleeds.

   H O M E

   I'm riding down a road of hard work
and broken hearts, I've been broken before,
It's easy to get broken again.

I know, by far, how dangerous a distanced
road can be, I've walked on it in the past and
always been on the losing end.

But I cannot help to accept, this feeling
that drives me back. Back to where
I was alone but never as lonesome...

... a place I called home.

   The road is the same, the city has
never changed, the people come and go
and leave little of those I used to know.

I fear a death alone, I fear that, in my
last goodbye, there wont be anyone there
to reply.

I've been so alone, I could just die on my own.

But I cant help to see, theres always a
brighter light. Even if it's too far away from
me, It's where I was alone, but never as lonesome...

...a place I called home...

...a place I used to call my own.

   Sometimes I wonder how things can fall together
before they fall apart. But as far as this body can take me,
just remember I'll be by your side.

   Climbing up and down then back again, over and under
and trhough our own problems, things we cant avoid but
we can sure as hell leave them behind.

   EXISTENCE

   Spirited away, you were taken from me,
for less than three days. Yet time whispered
it's breath of delayed blood and my own invented
dread.

   I scowl at the feeling, bringing it close to
an impossibility. I remark the words handed
tonight, "Where are you, my Love?"

I shudder in despair, trembling with fright,
vomiting in disgust, from a lonesome presence
and my own pitiful existence.

   Facing the night too late, waking to find
that another day is slain. I find it hard to bleed,
when the world and my enemies have taken all
they need.

   I condemn all this empty space, these
swollen hands that should be stronger so time
could not take you away, arms that should be around
you, instead of the desert's days.

I slip from my distraction, choke on my disbelief,
on how quickly my life can easily slip from me,
and destroy my existence.

Is everything only in my head, or is there really something worth seeing outside?
It's just that the sun hurts my eyes and I'd rather prefer the wolrd a bit colder.

   Without the sun beating down on me, so help me God, I'll fly far enough to stay
in the dark.

And if I go insane, it'll be fine with me. I dont want to break completely, until I'm
too far away for you to see.
You dont have to pick up my bones, I'm a burden only to gravity, making it work,
keeping me on the floor.

"Doesn't reincarnation strike you as another form a procrastination."

Chuck Palahniuk