I look,
for some sort of protection,
but find nothing close to it,
behind your eyes,

I look closer,
deeper,
hoping to pull what I need,
out of you,

but I can't even find a bit,
or a piece,
of what I truly need,
what I want,

from you,
to me,
to the wall,
and the in between,

nothing we do,
makes sense to me,
and the trust is breaking,
it will get lost before it has begun.

I feel I've found a home,
in this self-deprecating zone.
Like minded...
and I don't mind likeness.
Kites though,
I do like those.
Soaring without care,
but carefully full of direction,
directly diverging from our reflection.
The zenith of our spirit,
battered but full of its name.
See that's the beauty,
it still fights,
and takes flight,
though it struggles all the same.
Let it fight.
Let it stumble.
Let it rise from the ashes like a phoenix.
stronger for it's struggle.
My spirit will be a kite.
No lightning strikes my tether.
My spirit will be a kite...

...and it will defy the whims of weather.

Archaic Archeopteryx is my spirit animal,
a fossil in a niche,
not concerned with walking mammals.
Whether lyrics rip sick new tears in reality,
like 666 the beast that's brewing in my belly.
Zack de la rockin', and I'm blocking out my worries with words,
twist a sentence like an arm, feeding my guilt to the birds.
Killing in the name of peace,
please,
killing for that long lost spiritual release.

Pick a part to play in life, but so many covers,
don't concern myself with me, validation from others.
Jolts spark dark with an air of uncertainty,
bleached bones bathing in the acid of society.

Toxic to the touch, lead in the lungs,
a blur in the vision, and a pin on the tongue.
Born of a broken man, bandaged with spoken poetry,
the anti-spider web spun by the flies of normality.
Not born as a ghost,
but destined to become,
gather the people under the sequel of the still warm sun.
Rage planted the seeds,
with rap I watered through,
trimmed the shoots with abstract thought, now watch this flower bloom.

Pick a part to play in life, but so many covers,
don't concern myself with me, validation from others.
Jolts spark dark with an air of uncertainty,
bleached bones bathing in the acid of society.

When she found him,
he was a brittle bag of broken.
Drawstring taut.
Tight.
Holding thoughts that went unspoken.
Opening up isn't easy,
though they say it is in theory.
When putting it in practice,
words slowly flow uneasy.
But she found her way to his heart,
started to slowly pull it's strings.
Looser and looser.
And now his words he sings.
His spine was cracked,
so she blu-tacked it back together.
His mind, a map they scrawled
on scraps of black leather.
Bandaged his ego and plastered his past.
A perfect example of a person well matched.

Sickness listens to us sigh.
Sniggering snidely as we die.
Seeking our soul as we comply.

But still I live
And yet I am not alive.