I saw a child today, clutching for his balloon;
He was grasping at air, yet he was so close, too
But it was too far out of reach, just like you.

If you come across me on the shelf,
I may be archaic and forlorn.
The open book with too many tales,
But all the pages are torn.
I hold with me nights,
In places I shouldn't have been.
I carry with me special things,
And those I hope never to see again.
I've been told I wear my heart on my sleeve,
With just enough secrecy to get by.
And I've found candles don't hold their flame,
In the cold December nights.
A dust jacket of innocence and threat,
Of curlicued patterns and gilt.
If I never set eyes on tomorrow,
My pages would fail to be filled.
Words are a paint born of many hues,
Caught in the battle of beauty and rage.
Go ahead and read me--I dare you to,
And for me leave a tear on the page.
You think you have me figured out,
But everything is a prologue.
The main attraction lies unwritten;
My closing chapter, a dent in the fog.

I cannot decide if I'm open or just openly guarded
Confused, nothing to lose, positively disheartened?
I didn't ask for wisdom, but I didn't wanna breathe for a game
Down to the choices of painfully oblivious or rightfully insane

I cannot decide whether to hold back or to give it up to the rain.
What a simple thing to wonder, but is the giving worth the gain?
Empty vessels ponder without care, it might be nice for a moment
But one slip is all it takes to tumble, I'm not sure why I know this

I cannot decide if I'm supposed to be part of something  greater.
Or a placemark, a rock in the stream, the hostage for a traitor?
Am I the slave or the warrior, am I the disease or the cure?
Am I the fight or the patriot--if so, what am I fighting for?

God... what am I fighting for?