Pushing my bike up the hill as others ride up it.
Their eyes both laugh at me and judge me.

The best of authors can't write poetry.
The best of poets cannot sing.
The best of anything has weak points.
There is no best of everything.

I hear the yells for war,
people are screaming them daily
while the rest of us lie on our backs
crying because we're too lazy.
We're too tired,
we've got too much to do,
too much to stress for.
Meanwhile we're living big,
living rich in a land that's already been paid for.
Paid for by all of the original owners' blood.
The ones we felt the need to sacrifice
felt the need to ****** and **** just to get a land we could have shared if not for our big glorious dream,
a dream that nobody else can be included in.
It's a dream that has no resolution,
after all who really keeps their New Year's resolution.
Well another year has passed and we're just getting worse!
In the words of John Brown before he was hung,
"the crimes of this guilty land will never purged away
but with Blood."

She walks behind the pack
so no one can see her stumble.
She walks behind the pack
to console the ones who fall behind.
She walks behind the pack
because she isn't as confident as the front man.

She stays strong for others.
They are more important in her eyes.
Her eyes that only cry alone.

I'll make you a doll of clay;
I'll fire it and paint it for you.
You can love the doll or break it.
Take the doll instead of me,
so if the doll gets broken I'd still be okay.

You walk through your garden;
I am standing tall.
You pick up the lilies,
the daisies,
the honeysuckles,
and the petunias.
You put them all together carefully
and place them in a vase.
Then you return to glance once more at me.
You rip me out by my roots and throw me into the trash.
The bouquet is on the table mocking me while I rot alone.
I die fast, but the flowers slowly whither away where all can see.