Footprint

My life is based in lies:
Truths untold
Hide me from the prying eyes,
The judgements we’re supposed to make.
Everything I’ve ever heard
Tells me how my actions must be seen,
And who am I to say it’s wrong?
Who am I to say I’m sane?
Who am I to say I care, when I’m gone;
That I’m centered, when I’m drawn;
That every word I’ve ever spoken
Isn’t some evil, manipulative song?
Who am I to say that I deserve
While others have the right to say “what nerve!”
And like the wretch I’ve always been
I haven’t got the nerve to argue very long.
Best that I just carry on,
Trying to try on nothing different;
Because it seems the greatest gift that I can give,
To leave behind the smallest footprint.

The Art of Being More Social

I’m supposed to make an effort
Be friendly, it’s just fine
How dandy for the experts
I couldn’t trust a cup of wine

I’m supposed to make an effort
Accept mistakes, cast out a line
Trust that life won’t leave you desert
In the end it will just leave you brine

I’m not supposed to make an effort
People use each other all the time
And that doesn’t give much comfort
But what if comfort’s only lying?

Mental Meanderings

I am running away again;
Every question is an answer
To the problems in my head.
There’s too much in the world today
That doesn’t seem quite right,
And I must face (or else fly from)
The fact I’m not a light.
I keep looking at paths forward
And I see too many lies;
The trouble with an honest liar
Is it always comes as a surprise
When the people who should be telling truths
Are telling you what face goes best with ties,
And like something that could be boxed,
They go ahead and advertise
The person that you ought to be
To fit into the largest mold.
But I’m afraid a world like that
For me, is just too cold;
Something in me rails against
The lies we’re asked to tell.
I tell the ones I need to;
But there’s none I mean to sell.

War

My breath has been replaced with lead
And I’ve a soul that now is nearly dead
And a heart that for too long has bled
On the field of raging war inside.

No one sees the battles every day
Where each side claws to keep their foe at bay
But I can feel the casualties, in that same way
You know that someone dear to you has died.

But I am forced to hope it’s not so sad
That maybe there’s freedom to be had
And it won’t just leave two sides half mad
Wondering who can be right when both sides lied.

Dead

What became of us I do not know.
Were we buried beneath the dirt, or snow?
Did we drown beneath the waves so low,
We thought there was noplace underneath to go?
Did we walk the walk right off a cliff?
Did we stay still until the ground would shift?
Did we our spirits try to lift,
Only to fall, or remain adrift?
Did we try to fix the dissonance
With a simple shift of countenance,
Believing that a road paved with pretense
Might be the path to happiness?
Did we wave as the real thing passed us by,
Seeing only a stranger in our eye,
But wondering still if we should stop and lie
And talk about the weather with a sigh?
I suppose we just walked on instead,
Admiring roses black instead of red,
Not bothering to note where this road always led.
Perhaps that is why we lie here dead.

Breathing

I can’t breathe sometimes…
And sometimes I think there’s something really wrong with me;
But then I realize, I’m an idiot, and that it wouldn’t matter anyway.

I’m suffocating in these times:
Where we bicker, because, why wouldn’t we?
We only ever speak when we’ve nothing to say.

I’m sick of living out these lies,
Where the punchline of our every joke is that we’re angry,
And threats and fears are always termed as play.

I can’t even breathe sometimes…
But then, nobody ever seems to see,
So I guess that this is something that will simply go away.

Tough

If you have nothing nice to say,
Say nothing at all.
…Until you’re badgered again and again
To be the little princess, the doll:

Then, you have to speak —
But never of what matters;
And listen patiently to everything,
But never offer answers.

‘Cause who needs those, really?
We each make up our own.
And who cares, really,
If it even hits home?

Like everything else,
It’s just… good enough.
And if you’re not content:
Well — tough.