It's my day at home today
And people ask what I will do
But I turn to them and tell them
That I really do not know

Well I'll wake up in the morning
Feeling like I've had no rest
And the fear that lies within me
Will rise and constrict my chest
But I'll stand up and be counted
I'll work hard, I'll try my best
And if you're lucky then I might even get dressed.

It's my day at home today
Some people say I work too much
But if they want me to socialise
Why don't they keep in touch?

Still I'll sit at home and surf the web
And text them from my room
And I'll look at pictures on the net
Of people on the moon
Sing **** the ashcloud with Miss Palmer
She'll be Mrs Gaiman soon
And if you're lucky then I might just pen a tune.

It's my day at home today
And people ask me why I'm here
I say that's because I have no plans
I play my life by ear

But it's doing me OK so far
I'm living with it well
Even if sometimes it can feel like
A flaming pit of hell
Still I'm learning and I'm trying
Poking out beneath my shell
And if you're lucky and you're good then I won't tell.

It's my day at home today
Sometimes people ask me why
I shut myself in yet seem so strong
And never, ever cry

And I tell them that I'm happy
And that's why I don't look sad
And I try my best to help them out
When they are feeling bad
But they don't know what I cannot say
That I've been driven mad
And if they're lucky then they will not understand.

It's my day at home today
And some people ask me why
I prefer to sit behind a screen
And watch the world go by

I say the phantom of the opera
Composed in a secret place
For he never wished the light of day
To fall upon his face
Even if I'm sat behind a pane
I'm running my own race
And if you're lucky I might let you keep the pace.

It's my day at home today
And people ask what I will do
But I'll turn to them and tell them
That it all depends on you.

Inspiration from making amazing quotations
The nation's defending its life with its shields
But the swords are all rusted the kingdom's been busted
and the ******* are bathing in gold that they steal

While the people are lying their babies are crying
their rhythm is dying 'cause heartbeats are gone
But they carry it trying to stop themselves crying
as they can't do nothing but watch on and on

As the bankers get richer the poor men get poorer
the ones in the middle are learning to steal
Where before they just borrowed now they got new sorrow
but still they don't  know that they ain't down at heel

They think they are poor so they vote in the richest
just hoping the ******* will keep them in funds
While the genuine destitute lie in the street
and the taxes are funding those *****' cummerbunds

There's a baby who's crying not just 'cause she's some brat
who ain't got no ice cream she's dying of cold
Yes it happens in streets prob'ly near where you live
it isn't just something in stories of old

There are people out there in the gorbals and barrios
the projects the banlieues the hoods and the schemes
Where their lives are the ghetto there is no way out
but to hope or to rap or to wing on a dream

They ask why you ain't reading you try but it's killing you
trying to provide for a family of two
When your mother's alone lying slumped on the sofa
and work w-w-working is all you can do

When the **** do you think I'm supposed to be doing
this **** that you say I cannot live without?
If you listened to lyrics from songs you disparage
you might start to feel an iota of doubt

They're intelligent, eloquent, more so than you
with your old boy school accent and ballot box blue
Can you rap, can you rhyme, can you keep it in time
can you tell of the **** that your family's been through?

No you sit in your office and scoff at the people
who spend their whole lives in a world that is real
They don't give a **** if you judge them or not
but they just want to shout at you
FEEL, ******, FEEL

I just want an imagination,
Something left to be
From which I can imaginate
A childhood fantasy.

I'd be a princess sweeping floors,
A servant in her court,
A woodland creature hunted down,
A ship without a port.

I'd be a bat, a moth, a worm,
A child without a voice
No noise, no music, no real sense,
If only I had choice.

I'd be so free, I'd fly so far
From that life which I knew
I'd show the world how one young girl
Can paint life her own hue.

I'd do these things, and many more;
I'd sacrifice my all
If only I could change the horrors
Back when I was small.

i like it
when children are innocent
when dreams are plentiful
when lifelines exist

An apple a day keeps the doctor away
The number thirteen is unlucky, they say
But what do they know as they kneel, as they pray?
Very little, or so I suspect.

To know one does not is to follow a path
Down which Socrates travelled through Plato's remarks
In a dialogue 'twixt many men playing parts
In a drama we cannot reject.

The orchid expresses a *******'s tresses
He yields to a woman's flosculous caresses
Her petals wilt down as the flower undresses
With a perfume unbottled, unkempt.

The covers they rise and the muscles they twist
The lovers meet under a treacherous tryst
Yet nothing prepared for the moment they kissed
And their eyes met with love heaven-sent.

"Loco! Loco!" they bray, wanting neatness to stay
Tidied rooms, closing doors as they're lost by the way
Through which others have carried us day after day
And they're bowing, conforming to norms.

For it's hard when you're scarred to not simply be harmed
By the things that they show you when you are unarmed
By the people you see being not formed but farmed,
Staring blankly with evident scorn.

If I want my gypsy life,
My solitary dream
It does require a sacrifice,
More than I can exprime.

Car dans ma vie bohémienne,
Je dois me tenir seule
Même si mes sentiments m’amènent
À vouloir être en deux.

Je sais que dans ce jeu de rime
Je râte ; quand-même, j’essais
Car sûr mon cœur tes yeux s’impriment :
La lumière that day.

The candlelight that twirled and danced
And lit up eyes and hair
As deep inside something woke, pranced
And breathed a fresh, new air.

This was something I'd never had:
Un sentiment profond
Regretfully I leave, though sad;
Mais l'route gitane, c'est longue !

If all scars were purple
And all bruises red
And we could pour out
All the pain in our heads

If people were rabbits
And rabbits were dead
And all scars were purple
And all bruises red –

Would people be purple?
Would rabbits be dead?
Is it bruises that **** us,
Or scars to the head?

What is it that tortures us,
Leaves us all writhing?
What makes us stop living
And start just surviving?

What monster pursues us –
What ghastly condition?
The one deep within us;
The sick apparition.

This torturous bubble
From deep in our heart
Wells up, overwhelms us
And tears us apart.