How is his life?
     Has he seen the sights?
          And can he sleep at night?

       But does it all feel right?
He's got nothing to compare it to,
     so I guess it might.


There's a closet deep within this monster
and he only opens up when he feels like his father.
He squeezes his knuckles,
     a relief of tension,
but it still just aint enough to drown out the apprehension.
He's made of sticks and stones,
          of broken bones
   and abandoned homes -
open for a tenant
          with nowhere else to go.
But with just a little *****,
          smoke
               and wisdom
he can find the right mood
     to hold a rhythm
not unlike any other stage diver,
               cage fighter
     or rhyme writer.

A means to a loose end
                    to make the world feel lighter.