Synchronize my family
and feed them to the wind
let their fevered hearts glow bright
upon my wired wings.

Anaesthetize paralysis
indulge in wave analysis
and stomp your feet and pump your fist
upon my wired wings.

Send the signal from the ground
to the twisting ceiling
that's when the feelings bounce around
upon my wired wings

You're flying out on gifts of fire
and living on the wind
so crank it up and find the wire
that leads to sonic wings.

Shower in the sea of wishes
hear the mountains sing.
When wind coils and earth fissures
beside re-wired beings.

The slender shades that eyes evade.
Pushing, rolling, breaking, fixing.
Working hard, draining days.
Thrashing, mauling, tweaking, cringing.
Crying pleas, the beggars' seal,
a veteran voice of tired appeal.

The pheromones of filthy beasts,
riches of the silver peaks,
a cocktail made to quench the thirst of the class that comes in first.
And off with the shades in a wooden hearse.

They find the fact the sun will shine down into worlds
of salt and lime a relieving sign, of better times,
but sedated is this state of hope and with it their ambitions broke.
Light indeed is what they are, of coin and health and lands afar.
And in this state of steam and shadows,
they long for rules and signs and arrows.

Again, it comes, with stabs, and gaps, and drags, day, by day, you wait, with hope, that you, not broke, but a, phase of life, and not, condemned, or shunned, but truth, be told, if not, from fault, you're getting, old, and that, don't change, and soon, estranged, you'll roam, in search, of what, you lost. It is, with pain, I can inform, the human form, its not for life, least not our life, but each others, and that we must, be kind, lest we find, not helping, hands, but, roaming feet, and faces, that we'll never meet.

The people I see, the young and the free
They dance and they sing in blissful retreat.
Their lives are a sample of pure liberty
And mine an example of firmly fixed feet

I grew up alone, in this I am blessed
I know of the darkness and it knows me best
My friends I found waiting beside the far lights
I wouldn't have seen them without those dark nights.

I feel like the fuse has already burnt.
The engine backfired, old meat past expired
I feel like a liar, pretending to be, pretending to see
what it is they believe they are doing
with their endless consumption and moving
their only function, save but to breathe
is to make our lives harder, or enforce beliefs.

The reality is, its in human nature
to skip the sad memories of our bad behaviour
and think of the times when we looked our best
convince ourselves that we're flawless and blessed.

I won't have such good memories, for I hid in the dark.
Shade like and skinny, and spared any romance.
It's hard to see evil that's basking in light.
So wait for the night and they'll dance, and they'll melt, and you'll see,
those good memories weren't made by people like them.
They were made by people like me.

Black, space, satiated void,
a meaty elixir, romanticised steroid,
a lens through which we see the heart,
a core, a seed where life shall start.

I hope in deepest darkest dreams,
that life shall come as godly fiends,
to shame us all and show us splendour,
our childhood may we then remember.

When stars were bright and mighty things,
more than flame in frost,
they inspired our hearts and dreams,
the gifts that we have lost.

I look up and I see them each,
looking down on me.
worlds and stories I'd like to see,
but sadly cannot reach.

There's a place that I like to visit.
There aren't any people in it.
But it's where I go to learn about those
caught in the throes of the death do us part,
in sickness and in health.
For life is a marriage to blood and emotion.
A potion, a cocktail brewed for explosions.

And I hid there a while much too long
I thought I was strong, with my barriers locked,
but instead I found a child who's dreams I'd blocked,
In favour of the well rehearsed plots I'd painted around me
Let an air of confidence and contentedness surround me.
The irony is I've spent my life watching in others
the endearing innocence of the fragility of life,
the spitting of truth in the face of facade.
As I tried so hard to not be human
to be an error in the system
so I could rescue those who had no assistance.

But there was one lie that had me so convinced.
The lie that no one ever cared about me.
Taught to a machine of flesh and ideas,
ready to adopt whatever notion would get it through the years,
and it got me through many, and I can't say they were wasted,
but when your prerogative is copy and pasted
from an article of doubt, fear and hatred,
you become inflated by any solitary strength,
to compensate for love and care in their absence.

I thought the silence of my soul was a sign of peace
but it was only the absence of chirping birds and grazing elk
in the presence of a prowling beast.

Nothing is not pain, and somehow not as simple as
being no more than nothing would explain.

Vaguely showing signs of love
Tamely cooking up
meals of modesty
bravely ******* up
priorities, honestly
I though for a time
those emotional commodities were none existent
Reminiscent of nothing.
I didn't know of loving
and my weekly rations of half arsed hugging
didn't feed an appetite for much more than
pokemon cards and chicken nuggets.

What child would grow in a void of the unknown
to love the people who left them
alone and longing
whilst furnishings and trinkets they bring in
as if to say that
a child is no more worth a thought than
the millionth handbag or lamp shade brought.
And to that child these things are nothing.
Nothing in love and nothing in family
and yet more worthy of attention and affection than them,
but that's fine.
Such consistent rejection had some effects on me
and I found my joy in toys and confectioneries.

To know the familiar face of nothing
and paint on that blank canvass a picture of something
easier to define for the lack of light
and in some morbid way, that may be my blessing;
A comprehensive and profound understanding of the things I'm missing.

Soothing hue, tranquil blue.
A scene serene in testament to you.
I thank it, this blanket hung soft in the sky,
and drift on the breeze, the mute lullaby.
We are children of stars, all of us each,
if you look way back far beyond memory's reach.
Past fire and lightning, spirit and beast,
our atoms return, and stars we complete.

Look to the sky, our bubble of blue.
A window our parent forever feeds through.
A gentle notion, and grace in a descending motion
so subtle we feel only a warmth on our face as we float in a breathable ocean.

A mirror perhaps it holds above
and paints in clouds the world
with spires and cities and oceans
and shifts so subtle in ways unseen
so we won't forget the nature
of where we've been.

For though the world seems still and quiet
it shifts and it's easy to pass by it,
as we focus on each little thing
there's a joy that it brings, our Ozone,
in its patterns of premature recognitions
shapes that are born in a state of remission
and only those who are readily staring
see that the earth is patient and caring.