Do you know the fear of me?
Know my name
it is Tyranny
I live in fame
and infamy
You knew me at your birth
It is I who give you worth
how well can you serve?

I do not go to temples
I will not build one for you
But I will watch your temple at night and make sure it does not leave
I do not have your anger
In the same direction
But I will let you hold your ground, the ground is mine as well
And when they go about, they go about, they go about, I will not silence you, for to silence you is to silence myself, and I have much to say.
How can I condemn you
For your sorrow and your sound
when I myself with do the same if you give me enough time
I do not ask that you conform, Its a four letter word with 7,
but I ask you to not do the same,
Can we not be peaceful
and believe in different heavens?

I am past my definitions
I feel my sounds pass through my ears and from my hands
once they leave me do I still own them?
The places you've fallen asleep in
and the places you've dreamed in
after you've left them
do they lie still breathing?

Our hearts turn to leaky tin roofs
Our souls feel themselves becoming confined
smaller spaces
win races
but they don't get you many sweethearts
We burn our feet off
and our hearts we cough up
into cups of styrofoam

Every man a poet
every word a rhyme
every clock a sentry
every sentry can tell time
i get so sick of the way the clock ticks
we are so obsessed with out own deaths
but when we take our deaths in jest
we make less of ourselves and instead
we make a joke of our lives
Every mask a neighbor
Every street corner a mob
We used to believe in something
now we believe in nothing more
than what our eyes see,
we mask our feelings
go **** yourselves but don't let yourselves feel love.

Summer never came that year, the year it was all well, for perhaps the first time they went away
and left us in peace, the nights were not warm enough, the stars were too far away,
it was not summer that did not come but I who hid away.
My life has made confinements, I followed them you see, Now my heart is hidden and hidden too from me. This world is not made for forest folk, for poets, or the ones,
who cry at thoughts of dying soldiers, yet they have never met one. The world is not kind to artists who still do not fear to dream, our angers have gone cold, and instead they burn us well.

These place, these places that cut us with their ice and the sun
their wind and the rain
their silence and their sound
will fall one day like a thunderhead that has left its heart somewhere else
The diamonds we once mined for on the days when yesterdays were dying and todays were not yet born, you know what it is like to have lived a thousand lives and be embarrassed by nine hundred of them and fear they might resurface for how can one be and then not, how can one sleep and not wake, for death while living is so hard to understand.
These places, these places, how I have loved them for their pain, for if it hurts then I must have cared, and if I cared I must have loved.