my pages are shaking like
timid dry leaves on
a brisk Autumn morning
I am a book heavy
with unspoken words
piled beneath countless others
a couple stains and a weak spine
it's hard to hold all the stories together
sometimes I'll find a page out of order
that someone's ripped out and
rearranged
The stories are getting shorter and shorter
losing pages throughout and

And they said that faith is for the weak,
And they said that we are dead.
That we can't fight,
That our blood is filthy,
That our eyes cant see the light.

We look up at the bright sky,
But we paint darkness.
We are trying to hunt
The vengeful freedom,
But we fall,
And we break our spirit.

Who distilates the blood from the water?
Who remembers the smile of a brother?
Who says we cannot rise,
Are we not murderers of the heart?

I still cringe every time
I see your car