Found songs as gifts to you are little treasures
I've sent in the mail now, how many feathers?
Aha.
For being so far away from one another,
We do dance a lot more than our fathers and mothers
Till dawn?
Wind and water make what you see,
Tell me again how the blue meets the green.
I love that story.
Kiss my lips a little softer than the sun kisses my skin
I'll put mine to the paper until we can meet again
Fingers are extensions of soul.
My, my, your words form your shape
That's the image of you I can't erase.
*Not that I'd want to...

There isn't really any significance in our attempts
The sweater's string is being pulled as we continue to knit

But the string is unraveling and we are left only cold
The pasta on our plate is nothing but an appealing fake

So our bellies are empty and our shoulders are shivering
We lay there limply as we are slowly wrapped in our own string

Wrists and ankles bound by unfulfilled and color-coded dreams
An S & M horror show in the sheets with life, us, & we

Dancing like a jerky ballerina, eyes glazed over now
We used to know how to walk and talk, but we've forgotten how

So as puppets we are told that we are not cold nor hungry
And that everything is fine and everything is as it seems

So we smile, thinking our wooden houses can make us happy
We don't notice that everything is painted the same color

Or girls and boys look exactly like their fathers and mothers
And we are just waiting to be piled onto the dead heap

Of broken toys and broken dreams that sometimes plagues our deep sleep
That feeling when you get really sad sometimes, that's what that is

So cut your strings, and think some things, breathe out as human again
The puppeteer has no time to hear of a few strings snapping

He has his hands full keeping down the human spirit, you know?
And when he's sleeping, cut off his fingers and his little toes

I know you are worried because you are tiny and alone
But he can't do anything if he has nothing to control

If the blade is still ******, do not clean any of it off
Use the blood and blade to cut the strings and soak their wood awash

Wood stained red, breathe life again, their eyes light up with words unsaid
And the lonely alabaster trees are swaying in the breeze

Red streamers tied to the branches to signify what is free

If only someone really had the courage to cut the strings
*I could go for the gritty, teeth-biting, ******, anarchy.