I am a child of Summer- born beneath
the blazing sun of a July afternoon.
Forged in Fire, you know
my emotions are a raging monsoon.

I grow tired and weary as air turns chill;
my skin will crack and bleed.
I was always told Winter was no place
for a growing Summer seed.

But I am proud to call Winter home,
and it is entirely thanks to you.
Your Winters give me more warmth
than I ever thought I knew.

I’ve fallen for Winter, you know...
So yes, of course, I love the snow.

Most nights I exile myself
to the desert I call my room,
but at times I wander these halls
missing sounds that living exhume.
The distant murmur of a television,
water filling the kitchen sink.
Blasting air ricocheting off
lightless walls painted pink.
The front door closing behind me,
siblings footsteps getting faster.
The precious cries of the cast
lingering in the shadow of its master.

That is just a sampling of the racket
that I have been raised to love.
But truth is, we simply coexist in this house,
pushed together by some force up above.
Most nights I’m left with nothing-
not even the sound of snoring.
Not even raised voices, objects falling,
faces crashing, and anger roaring.
Not even the comfort of knowing they’re here
and being sure they aren’t missed.
Just that my family is out there in the world,
Just that somewhere, they exist.

So most nights I exile myself
to the room in which I sleep,
Running away from the silence
of which this house is a keep.

A garden kept away from sun,
these plants best grow in shade.
Primrose and violets, foxglove and iris
no morning sun has made.

Miles away from dusty trail,
enclosed by fence of stone.
This garden I create
I have always tended alone.

I built a new one by the river,
on whose banks the young deer graze.
One that is harder to maintain,
but is kissed by sunlight’s rays.

Now I see more flowers
than I ever thought to know.
And now I know the beauty
of loving while I grow.

Simplicity of a sunny day,
air that penetrates and cleans me.
Thoughts abound on a black couch;
it’s no wonder you like poetry.

My skin will bleed when faced
with knives and guns and needles,
but words will slowly **** me,
though they are not the greatest evil.

The greatest evil lies within;
it’s these thoughts, I am Creator.
The feelings that my eyes cry out,
the truth laid out on paper.

I tried to write in happiness,
but once I start to think
emotions overcome me,
and the tears I catch to drink.

A deer grazing by the side of the road
This brisk, September morning.
The watered glass sparkling in the sunlight
While I turn my head around.

Last night I hurt the only one
that comforts me in chilling dark.
Your eyes, they are the rattled gun
that murders me; you’ve laid your mark.

The target sits atop my face,
I seek your wounded core.
You shot me in a sacred space;
my lungs, they breathe no more.

But you pick me off the ****** ground
and cradle my shattered being
till my mind knows that I am found,
and my heart stops disagreeing.

Though knowing that I worry you...
it means I am a killer too.

After all these years,
Why won’t you stay?
You know, you’re way too good
At pushing me away.

You were there for me
During my darkest years,
But alone you lay now
Covered in scars and tears.

And despite my best efforts
To lend a shoulder...
The closer I get,
The more you grow colder.

I no longer understand
What goes on in your mind.
What would you say if
I told you I cry?

You know, you're way too good
At pushing me away.
I feel kind of alone,
And kind of betrayed.

We're hiding behind face,
Behind smiles and laughter.
There was a happy before,
But now there’s a horrible after.

What do you
Expect me to say,
When you're way too good
At pushing me away?

Last night, I hit a wall in my chest.
Like the sea, I came crashing down
and suddenly, I was drowning.

Last night, I hit a wall in my head
and I couldn’t process thought anymore.
There was only pain behind my eyes.

Last night, I hit a wall with my fists.
The drywall fell broken to the floor,
and blood dripped down my knuckles.

The yelling, screaming,
The guilt trip.
I just wanted help.

The anger, rage,
The shaming,
I just wanted help.

I’m just a little lost,
A little bit confused.
I just wanted help.

But I was met with sadness,
With passive aggressive when
I just wanted help.

I'm not from here,
I was never from here.

It's time to return home.

Looking at the walls,
A group of ballerinas,
Dancing until the world ends.
Their feet in perfect form
And their open hands.
Why do they not dance for me?

The world is dancing,
The people are singing,
But I feel as though my life is ending.

Tonight,
Feeling a little poor,
I'm like an animal
With my head hanging out the windows.

It's time to return home.

This is my final song,
My final song,
Profound thoughts
And dancing...

...until the world ends.

A little lost one Autumn morn,
Was not sight, but sound that found me.
Not the golden rays of the yielding sun,
But rain it was that freed me.
The strength of an army would come crashing down,
With its might, we avert from the fighting.
But as the drums do sound the battle cry,
We feel pride in their forceful chanting.

A little frail one Autumn noon,
Was not lust, but love that found me.
Not the yearning for the touch of skin,
But the heart it was that freed me.
The fertile soil, though picked over again,
Grateful are we for the bounty.
Now blessed by Nature's luminosity
Through death we'll find its beauty.

A little tired one Autumn night,
Was not sleep, but chill that found me.
Not the twilight sky or the crescent moon
But was cold and calm that freed me.
Beneath the stars, the skies above,
By fire we are dancing.
To the forces that feed us, to those we love,
Hand-in-hand we are singing.

A little lost one Autumn morn,
Was not sight, but sound that found me.
Not the golden rays of the yielding sun,
But today it was that freed me.

No soy de aquí.
Yo nunca fuera de aquí.

Es tiempo para regresar a casa.

Mirando a las paredes
Un grupo de bailarines
Bailando hasta que el mundo terminará
Sus pies en forma perfecta
Y sus manos abiertas
¿Por qué ellas no bailan por mi?

El mundo está bailando
La gente está cantando
Pero siento cómo mi vida está terminando.

Esta noche,
Siento un poco mal
Soy cómo un animal
Con mi cabeza colgando de las ventanas

Es tiempo para regresar a casa.

Esta es mi canción final,
Mi canción final.
Pensamientos profundos
Y bailando...

...hasta que el mundo terminará.

I realized today that everyone prays
To someone, in some way.
And I realized that yes, there are stars in New Jersey.

I remembered that everything is a passing phase,
As though we are the wind.
And I remembered that there are, in fact, stars in New Jersey.

I accepted today that people will praise
As often as they do betray.
I accepted that there are stars in New Jersey.

I witnessed tonight their beautiful gaze
As I sat on the rooftop.
I witnessed those stars in New Jersey.

My language, my language
We hide behind
Like a veil, like a mask
We´re all walking blind.

My language, my language
Hardly mine anymore.
It belongs to no man,
But to politics and war.

My language, our language
It is all the same.
My language to you
Is a child´s game.

This language, these words
Even at their best
Could you possibly tell me
Apart from the rest?

He took what was
Most precious to her.
Pried it out
Of her cold, dead hands.

It was more
Than just a life taken.
It was the life before her,
And the life after.

Cast away, was her name
And shamed, her children were.
Drunk on pride
The man danced where her body lay.

Danced by the fire
And by the blood.
Built his cities
Upon death and decay.

It was more
Than just a life taken.
It was her identity
And eventually his as well.

It will be the end of the man
One day,
When he finally sees the truth
When he can finally feel the pain.

When his children have forgotten
Who they are,
Because his nation was built
Upon another.

And the world hates us now,
But they will cry for us then.
The day we fall
And start all over again.

Leave me here,
In this room with no color.
In this room where the clock keeps ticking
and the television only plays static.

Here I sit in silence,
Nothing to comfort me.
No food to eat and nothing to drink.
No way out, just one way in.

I lay with my head down on a cold table,
below the air conditioner vent.
There's either a dozen pair of eyes staring,
or six people turning away.

If they could, my hands would reach out.
Yet I lack the vigor and I lack the strength.
Seems I've left myself at home,
Because I'm not entirely here.

Please see me.

Not the person I appear to be.
Not the one you see walking isles,
The one who grins, who looks at you with those doggy eyes
Who apologizes, who cowers.

Please see me.

Not my skin. Not my hair.
Please don't call me something I'm not.
Please understand that I love your people
But I come from somewhere else.

Please understand me.

As I have come to understand you,
This place, these people,
These ways and the talk.
Please try, as I have tried countless times before.

I want to see the Earth
for what it truly is.
To observe humanity,
as we have observed ourselves for generations,
through all of time,
so that I may truly understand what it means to be me.

I wish to see ourselves
as we truly are.
To see our cities and nations
as functioning aspects
Of a single society,
the entity that is the world.

Not as worlds in their own rights,
conflicting from the dawn of civilization
to the end of time.
Not as we are now,
Fighting with hate when we should be
communicating with admiration.

I choose to understand our differences
rather than argue them
or worse yet, ignore them.
What could be done,
In a world where we
at least try to understand.

Humanity’s biggest flaw
is humanity itself,
and yet it is our greatest asset.
Look at this place that we have built;
and imagine what we could do
if we do it together.

What happened
to this place that once stood tall?
Served as a palace of intellectual growth,
or perhaps a gateway from one place to another time,
         one world to another realm,
                          connecting minds and hearts.

Famous for providing us with another perspective,
a different outlook on life with which to compare ours.
Now covered in vines and plagued by broken windows,
it’s been reduced to nearly ashes and faded footsteps.

Frozen fingers and frozen toes,
Frozen eyes with somewhere to be.
Foggy windows gently kissed by gently falling rain,
Creating a presence in a fallen city,
A long-forgotten grandeur.

Packed into cars, hovering above and looking down,
Measuring yards and counting row-houses
As though the view above gave us control,
Could possibly help us understand.

Soon it became routine.
The hum-buzz grinding of the metal hitting the tracks,
The same disapproving faces of a race in constant motion.
Just a matter of putting on my face and getting it done.

It was a sight of something different,
Opposite of everything I had ever known.
The truth I witnessed every day
Left me amazed and slightly dizzy.

So with frozen fingers and frozen toes,
These frozen eyes venture forth.
Coming down from my high bearings,
Perhaps the city creates a presence within me.

This feels like the kind
Of dark, warm night
When you'd leave us
Forever.

This feels like about the time
You'd start crying
Begging, pleading,
Swearing you've had enough.

I've seen you cry
I've seen you angry
I've seen you point fingers
At everyone else.

And so this feels like the kind of moment
You'd start blaming us
Again,
Like always.

This feels like the kind of disaster
That would finally make you give up
And you would finally leave us,
Forever.

This feels like the kind of weather,
With our broken, unkempt, and unlit house,
When you would hate us
Forever.

So yes, this feels like the kind of
Calm, unforgiving night
When you'd point a gun at your head
And leave us, forever.

The cold embeds itself
Deep within the reaches of the underground.
It freezes the earth's core,
Similar to the way it freezes our bones.

This cold grows inside the walls of every abandoned building,
Every forgotten factory,
Along the soiled roads
That wind themselves around the city we call home.

The masses move as one,
Lifeless yet still they breathe.
They're following routine,
Simply because routine is hard to break.

And yet the buses still come,
The trains still run,
The high-speed lines still high.
As if to trick us into believing that the world might still be alive.

This cold has been a relentless assault.
And as with everybody else,
The cold has frozen my motivation.
It has shattered my will.

-Pilot