Good god, tell me
Why is it you try to fell me?
My hands are shaking, my bones are aching
My knees are quaking
But you seem to stand above me, so firm.
Good god, do you like to watch me squirm?
I have a list of hopeless romantics
Who deign love a flower, and make themselves frantic
For if you tried to so compare
Love to a blossom in the summer air
Any garden of mine you could find there
Would be unkempt and overgrown.
These thistles catch me, and I moan.
There aren’t any cracks in my foundations
But there are jagged holes, and little spaces
Where things were once held and stored up
Places I swore I’d board up
Patches I still can’t let go of.
Holes that fill when I start to pour
And it’s always a little bit, little bit more.
And you know that I’m young, I’ll never get enough
My people tap on screens when times get rough
And there is no winning with the ants on earth!
When we all stumble blindly, seeking pleasure, mirth
Professing opinion as law
Religion and God
These scribbles, so raw--
There is no winning
There is no winning.
And really, who gives half a damn just who I love
When I’ll always feel scorned by the sky above.
The head acts as a machine, strict, oiled
Crippled only by emotion and by blood boiled
And I find myself wearied by a weary world.
It’s all I can do to keep my heart open
My mind unfurled.