there's a lot wrong with the earth- & with my head i'm trying to shed my addict skin i'm so much more than what i depict & i've come pretty far, considering where i've been
& the world still looks bleak but i've gained some light by burning down every bridge in my sight & you may say my pyromania is born out of spite but your toxicity is now gone- & i can finally breathe right
so i'm going to continue to fix myself i'll box up old memories & hide them on the shelf cause i'm tired of treating the past like a prison cell. & i've roamed ******* far from the pits of your ****.
My mom never let me play in ball pits She said they were filled with germs If it were up to me I'd have played in them But I had to live by her terms where As healthy baby born and raised Only germs would get me sick So I chose to stay away Although I thought it was a trick
My mom never let me play in ball pits She'd say they are covered in bacteria And that's all the criteria needed For her method of protection Against the risk of infection But correction What about the protection I needed from my own reflection
Pinching and tucking and ******* In my stomach to make the image in the mirror hurt less Fighting and crying and trying Did my mom really do her best
Now I'm not blaming her for the absurdity For it was me who created my insecurity That I failed to overlook each day But it's ok Because my mom never let me play in ball pits
Each of us our has own struggles or disease Not just the flu or strep throat Mine was the desire to please Let go of all the worries But I could not let the war cease
We can hope for the best and pray But if we all get sick anyway I must admit That sometimes I wish I played in ball pits
The band starts playing at a ***** and crowded backyard. Rebellious youth gather to cast their vote with the stomping of their doc martin boots. Beer cans everywhere, everyone's trying to let loose the raw stranglehold their society has produced. The guitars go off and the ritual begins. First they assemble in the heart of the pit. In the center individual tragedies bring fourth the wrath of a God's army. Anarchy you call it, Ha! I call it reassurance, reassurance that this anger is surely communal.
I never saw it more clearer, the youth's power to resist: If the government wont hear us, we will create our own sound even under the batons of fascism, we spit on your rule, your control of our art.
We wont bow down to a law with our names written all over it, while another politician walks free from corruption. While another officer guns down an un armed child and calls it self-defense. While suspicious mass shootings continue to occur and mass cameras grow in recording. While you send more people off to war for another countries resources. These thoughts explode out of me into shoves, screams, ****** cuts, reckless behavior, and then finally release. Pure psychiatric release.
I stand before the walls of a glorified failure as it tumbles beneath itself. The nature of a grave danger, labored with a dire wager. Plunges and crumple, into a pile of rubble and to continue forth into a hidden tunnel.
Dirt stain fingers and my inner winner; The only tools left to dig a way out of our rapidly crumbling puzzle.
You delivered me my unfathomable killer- A ineradicable form of justice. My sacramental, misjudgment of a thrill gone astray. Leaving me feeding the birds which prey on saints most days.
I stand before the wall as a simple thrall. Dirt and grime painting my nails. I stand in my hellish pit readying to climb. Ready to rise from the plague surrounding me. To fill my lunges with air, not lingering with death.