different                                     routes



   take


    may


     paths


     Our



   ­          Our roots                                  are common

□
Why did I fight so hard
and for so long
to escape
from 'their' prison
when I've found myself
creating my own
and without realising it.

Negative emotions arrive
and I welcome them in.

I must break down my own walls,
stand taller,
walk right through
these self designed
captive thoughts.

They hold me
tie me up,
weigh me down.
I've allowed myself
to be confined
once more.

What was the point
in fighting so hard
for so long?
□

Papers are scattered on your kitchen floor
of the life you had/that you once knew/the one you had before
you're sad/Yeah, you're crying
Yeah, you feel blue..
you're saying oh no/no/no/ this can't be true
but it's happening/ it's real/it's all true --
about a marriage/ about the husband/ that you once knew---
n' you've had the **** kicked out of you
but you're fighter/you're a scrapper/n' you won't give up
on the hope that this lie of a marriage/that he's just dumped
you dream of of a future life----
Where perhaps someone loves you
and it's for life-----
and, they don't give you up...
for this years model
or, for /whatever it is --
for their moment of bliss...
you have to the meet a judge that you don't know
you can't afford a lawyer and he knows that...
but just try to explain away his accusations he's placed in black
to call you the villain/and it's not you
you know his lies are not true...
the betrayal began long ago...
when he cut you down with words like knives
that he would throw at you while he smiled
Papers are scattered on your kitchen floor
about the love that is no more.

I dance as if it is air,
Gliding upon the surface
As not to make a
Disturbance,
Whispering,
Gliding,
Upon the veil of the floor
I am in motion, movement
Is my form,
Each rhyme is like my own
Heartbeat,
It washes over me, cleanses my soul,
I am akin to a feather
Blowing ever gently in the wind
I flow, then ebb
I move as if I am called upon
Arm
Torso
Legs
Bend and arch out, fingers tell a
Story in movement,
My whole person is the
Frame,
Music
Painted
Is the brush that started with
But a stroke, and finished with
Many movements flowing within,
The beats as I glide upon the *veil of the floor..