You’re gone, you’re gone.
You left the room that you now want to see,
Not even inside and you make the papers go flying.
Punching me in the gut for not watching you leave
But I did watch.
I saw it all from the other side of the road
When you wanted us to go to the moon
But I didn’t want you to take away my breath.
Just because I’m not the hero doesn’t mean I am the villain
We both gave all we could,
In the play, in the game, in the siege,
Yet we both lost, we both lost everything, or whatever that means.
Still when I look back on us looking back
It hurts even though I know
You can’t win a game of chess on a monopoly board
And you certainly shouldn’t expect me to still play when you tip over the board.
It’s a Sunday, again
In this little town, in my mind
Flowers are blooming
Along the coast
On the beach
(If you can call that a beach)
People stomp and walk
In their walking boots
They go from shop to shop
To not-quite standing, still
The day goes on
Sundays don’t stop for them
Like they don’t stop for a Sunday
lunch or a sundae, in the heat
(The artificially real heat)
I sweat waiting for their Sunday to end
And my Sunday to begin.
I wish my eyes could see my soul
Would they like what they see?
Or would they want to change it.
In looking after myself am I being selfish?
In trying to make a part of me better and I making another worse?
Or have I always had that quality.
How do you be nice? how do you be anything?
I know I can’t win,
I just wish I could see me.
The hungry caterpillar takes it all
And then the butterfly takes more than just the hunger.
The caterpillar needs to be hungry to exist.
I need food to survive.
The butterfly exists in a world away from food
Is she pretty, is she colourful?
She isn’t bubbly, and she certainly isn’t hungry.
I take things away to be this butterfly,
The swan we were promised to be.
We were never told this would be hard
We were never told we would lose ourselves
We were never told that we could be neither hungry nor the butterfly.
I don’t want to be seen as hungry
No, I don’t want to be hungry
But a butterfly is different
Than a caterpillar who isn’t hungry.
He looks at me
But not in the way I want
Why do I want to be noticed?
I want to be more than I am
I want to be what he wants to see
It doesn’t matter what he thinks
But yet I want to be seen
My mind keeps ticking, ticking and ticking.
But should drops of ice take it over
Or should the flame burn on and on?
Is it better for the clock to buffer
Or the clock to be on double speed?
My hands can’t help themselves,
They yearn to touch, to feel, to express themselves.
A self-serving pleasure.
The mind mastering the body,
Creating the beauty of art.