obsidian black-rock soul
lackluster and cold
loosing shards over backyards
failing to heed mother's plea
"keep to yourself, the children are here"
maybe tomorrow i'll borrow compassion
and fashion a rope out of all i can ration
to hold together 'til calmer weather comes
sneaking from behind the peaks and treetops
and leaves me the **** alone
as if
forget the children
they'll know soon enough the taste of hate
and the twinge of pain that precedes disdain
if only i could care
if only i could share a prayer
if only i could waive despair
anymore
anymore
anymore
obsidian black-rock soul
i’ll keep it to myself cause i can’t lose pieces
anymore
there’s not enough to reshape
anymore
just shards all over backyards
each one a bard that only knows how to sing
the ode to rejection
preach only self hate and the neighbors won’t love you
anymore
you’ll find yourself desperately clinging to
anymore
palms sweatier than when mom
found out i bombed writing class
i thought i couldn't be expressive
anymore
like Bob Ross coping with the loss of his brushes
hushed whispers don’t hit canvas like paint does
anymore
happy trees happy trees just have to get angry
when the sun can’t be created
anymore
maybe life is a portrait that we constantly create
experiences chances taken stain the canvas
in specific ways we’ll see at the end of our days
but we can guess what kind of colors we’re creating
we can’t claim sadness and ignorance
anymore
so the soul must be a palette not a ******* stone
those aren't shards they’re splotches
making everyone’s portraits
a few notches darker
we all splash them back and forth
not even thinking about the mixture
we can’t keep using only black paint
anymore