What's today when they're all the same These walls became a grave white paint chipped thin and this room's caving in and I can't think of my name Now who am I supposed to blame
What's tomorrow when you can't win Johnny Appleeseed - my only sin I'm not ashamed I swear I can explain I forgot just how to swim Now where am I supposed to exist
How many poets have I driven mad? The solemn drum of their pen etching marble wings with brass hands as they run away in their dreams with I, the strength of their stance Like trickling of water the question does erode
The subtle wind behind morning fog A dewdrop grin grows upon the young It's cultivated hate which lays wait beyond the sun The way they flock is all but gone In time of need they will come One by one it won't be long
Would I receive praise if I told you God does not exist or would you crucify me and stand for all he's against?
White-out fills the worn pages you so carelessly thumb Pretending to be a saint Preaching with a gun I think I'll skip the sermon I'd rather not bark at the moon
I hope you fall in love with my words; dancing to the curve of the petals I pluck from the air. So I can hold you to them like a gun. Placing the bitter metal against your skin, freeing you from the world they've been dying to keep you within.
Stop pretending you're something you're not. You're treading on flesh you'll never touch. You're playing with words at your own expense. This pen can't even puncture the surface. What makes you think they'll respect the scratches it left? Quit before it's too late. Give up and call it fate. You were never destined for greatness.