I swore I meant to get baptized
you ended up with my head under water,
just alittle too long that time
and it should be cold instead of hotter.
I fight against the rough waves
my arms reach out for you instead of splashing.
I prefer that method where I’m being saved
instead of receiving a verbal thrashing.

Rooted in ground, meant to settle down,
hiding under the rubble,
you’re not Sonic in the bubble.
While I’m bound to always maybe poke around
believe me I don’t want to cause trouble.
I’m not Sonic in the bubble.

I’ve always wanted a bigger bath tub
she craves to have a yard once more.
Everyday I trade both for a back rub
you ask “is your body even sore?”
I tell her who doesn’t feel some strain
and that her hands have always felt healing,
infact they cure almost every single pain
that I’ve had the misfortune of feeling

Hearing no sound, except the counting down
too far and deep in a puddle
you’re not Sonic in the bubble.
A trick I found is to always use a spin pound
straight from the knuckle,
I’m not Sonic in the bubble.

I only want the best chocolate
but I won’t pay for it out of pocket,
I expect a free taste to know if it’s worth my time.
Like picking doors and lockets
and sticking your fingers into sockets
it’s the type of thrill you don’t want to define.

A beauty that’s rarely seen,
only reserved for the May queen.
Dancing under her midsommarstang
when the time speeds up but it still seems so long.

We can share some codependency
we can share some trauma and blood.
If you were to leave it would be the end of me,
is this the type of story we tell of love?

Sadly there’s some poetic irony
of the horror when you witnessed the elders jumping,
still human enough but too lost to see
you were in the line; one day to be waiting.

Confuse possession with protection
mistake bare empathy for tender caring.
When’s the last time you felt needed affection
except for the wrong type others are sharing?

And at the very end of it all
you’ll have a face full of tears,
‘cause even a May Queen has to fall
within the changing of season in the years.
And you won’t even care
if it’s freedom or a new type of prison,
‘cause atleast someone will be there
to cry with, to hold you and listen.

She said “I don’t think I’m ok,
infact that much I know.”
She spends every single day
running against the winds blow.
When did she stop trying?
Did she even ever start?
Spends all of her time crying
as if to water a drought.

The tight rope is too tight,
and you walk a very thin line.
Another day and it’ll be alright,
and tomorrow you’ll be fine.

She said “I don’t want to a survivor.”
I tell her there’s worse things to be.
Keeps holding her breath like a diver,
but lack of oxygen is worrying.

We were standing right under the streetlight,
with no stars in our sight but those created with might.
With the cold’s bite making our skin burn and bright
saw the discomfort in my sight, “you got to clutch your jacket more tight.”

Now the pool is just too deep,
and your laps aren’t making time.
Another day and another promise to keep,
and tomorrow you’ll be fine.

The tight rope is too tight,
and you’re walking a very thin line.
But if you hold on with all your fight
then tomorrow you should be fine.

You’ve been barely living on the shelf
I know cause I once lived there myself,
denying and depriving my state of health
and doing it all while dwindling my wealth.

Many times closed the door but never turned the lock,
freeze right down to my core when there would come a knock

A broken heart
in a broken house
in the perfect dark
no one stirring but a dying mouse.
A broken spine
in a broken shell
atleast this body’s mine
I feel I’ve earned this hell

I’ve been praying for any release
or even a small hint of some relief.
It’s starting to get hard to even keep
my head above water; continue moving my feet.

I begin to see the days; how they fade away
if I’d have known I would never have shown
my critique of their shade of grey.

A broken heart
in a broken house,
both’s been ripped apart
and the flames I’ll douse.
A broken spine
in a broken shell,
I won’t say I’m fine
I won’t claim I’m swell.

I swear I’m just like the Sydney Kormoran,
peaceful illusion gliding upon the open seas.
But underneath the exterior there’s a devious plan,
you’ll be catching strays, with each blow of the breeze.
History can’t always be a pleasure cruise
sometimes it’s just a collision course,
there’s no such thing as a fair way to lose
when you’re on foot and they’re on horse.

Atleast there’s this sad sick satisfaction
that if we lost the good atleast the bad went down.
It was as unplanned as any spontaneous ****** action,
that both battleships sunk instead to where they were bound.

If there’s a story to learn besides making sure history doesn’t repeat,
it’s to keep an eye on whoever’s passing near.
They could be a savior, an angel, a liar or a cheat
but rule of thumb is to make your signal letters clear.

Maybe you were never ready
to carry a weight that’s so heavy.
If you can’t set the course,
you’re going to need to follow.
You can bring water to a horse
but you can’t make it swallow.

You have to put your foot down
to ever take a step forward.
From the city back to town,
from space bound to homeward.

But she’s a Medusa with a mirror,
frozen inlove with her own reflection.
You scream your lungs out but even near her,
you’re always ignored;under detection.

Maybe you were never prepared
to share a burden that should never be shared.
It’s been a few years; it’s been some time
since you lodged your last complaint.
I’d like to believe you’re now doing fine,
and you’d like to believe you’re just a saint.

You have to put your foot down
to ever take a step forward.
Follow the air bubbles to not drown
don’t turn a drama into a horror.

But she’s a Medusa with a mirror,
frozen inlove with her own reflection.
If she can’t move will you still fear her,
and her manipulation and deflection?

I sometimes forget Medusa was victim to a curse,
and I never tried to make it better but I sure as hell made it worse.
Maybe Athena could’ve been more forgiving and kind,
she didn’t have to leave her living, or she could’ve made her blind.
She could’ve plugged her ears
so she wouldn’t have to hear the screams
of the men who holds fears
of a woman who dreams.
She could’ve ripped off her nose
or just taken her voice,
sometimes that the way it goes
you just don’t get a choice.

But she’s a Medusa with a mirror,
frozen inlove with her own reflection.
Even if she could scream no one would hear her,
and long ago got used to the rejection.

The devil is sitting at a table
make sure to provide top service,
and if you are somehow able,
hide that his aggression makes you nervous.
When the White House is just a smidge too white,
it might be time for us Canucks to pull a 1814.
How can someone do absolutely nothing right?
and think what will be a nightmare will help revive an American dream?

The devil is sitting at the desk,
and he’s got yes men to shine and kiss his shoes.
It was finally time for him to fail a test
but his misguided cultists refused to let him lose.
When the White House is just a smidge too white,
even if the occupant is known to be orange.
He’s shutting the gates just too tight,
rushing Capitol instead of tearing his door hinge.

The devil is sitting at a table
he’s got the finest cutlery set,
and the legs of it aren’t stable
with each wobble he places his next bet.
When the White House is just a smidge too white,
I think it needs to be stripped and gain a new coat.
Why is a symbol of oppression dressed up so bright,
when it’s walls protect one and strangle every other throat?

He “did everything right” and they indicted him;
and now we fight eachother when we should be fighting him.
These people have forgot how the world turns,
infact they believe it’s stationery and around them.
So they anticipate heat when they make the world burn,
and await a rose after they rooted and snapped each stem.

Isn’t it absolutely insane
how the free can unknowingly live in a prison?
Didn’t anyone tell you even a Hurricane
can’t cleanse American Capitalism?

Your clear crystalline perfect sea
 touches and mix with my cloudy waves and sand.
They don’t crash together with speed or violently;
slowly fit together; lacing fingers together on each hand.

You’re wearing rings of rose gold
those around my eyes are black and blue.
Both sets of them are not so old,
but they’re also certainly not very new.

Counting the weaving constellations,
counting the bright and endless stars.
I made the story just an abbreviation;
just like my cuts birthed from my scars.

You’re wearing rings of rose gold
those around my eyes are black and blue.
The weather’s been awfully cold,
but your warmth has got through.

You’re wearing rings of rose gold
those around my eyes are black and blue.
Though this may come off as too bold
but I’ve always been inlove with you.

So feed my body to the fishes,
but make sure to keep my heart around.
Like a genie it could grant your wishes
but you’ll have to endure the sound.
Put it underneath the floorboards
just like in the Tell-tale Heart,
and set a timer for how long you can ignore
the lasting pounding once it begins to start.
I’m sure it’ll drive you mad,
I’d bet whatever’s left of me,
and would it even be so bad
to add another drop of water to the sea?