Circus
The act every night is one of great joy
Trained and taught to put our differences on a show
We laugh while we perform
Letting a part of ourselves out through the various characters we play
I let the people inside of me out
And outside in
The fragments of personalities normally not able to surface run wild like the horses and men.
And I can I smile like the children,
I can remember when I was just like them.
My soul is content,
Wild and running free
Oh what a life I behold
What it is to be me.
My Suggar
My feet were cut by the glass on my path,
And I knew the cure,
I knew what would make the pain seem bearable.
Though the medicine I would seek was only temporary,
Inducing such ail after the fruitful burst of happiness.
So I keep walking,
The glass becoming fewer, smaller and less often.
And I know for ever tear that escapes,
I become stronger in a way that will follow me through out my life.
Boxes
We argue over the boxes they put us in,
That we put ourselves in.
Labels adorn our body, some proud, some ashamed.
We fight over which are fair, which are offensive.
Should she be labeled that? And why is she labeled that?
It seems all we can talk about are the boxes that we live in, like listing a prescription.
We neatly stack away parts of ourselves, labelling them so we don't worry over what's inside.
The boxes are stacked up, holding us in its geometry.
And it seems we think we belong in these boxes.
But the corners are sharp, and cant't contain the wondering parts of ourselves. The parts that never considered this could be a home.
It seems to be that we are all too afraid.
Too afraid to admit that we don't know what box we fit in,
Too afraid to start writing our identities by hand.
What is it like to be you?
Are you brave enough to admit that you don't know the answer.
That you may never know the answer.
Are you brave enough to finally unpack all your boxes, and face whats inside?
Run Child
It haunts my mind this concept.
Where it ends in a bitter-sweet finale,
And by a hand so close, a hand meant to stroke, not strike.
But he never played by our rules, and I never played by his.
Run from him child,
Run from the life he holds in his deadly grip.
And as I take my last breath around his blade,
His heart, a heart that beats for me, stops.
There is no more ail,
No more anguish thrusted upon our strained minds,
There is a end to the story that had no purpose.