Truth or Fiction?I can’t find that place of comfort,Truth or Fiction?
Where my actions flow together as one;
But there are moments where I almost feel it, Like balancing a blade at the end of my tongue.
It begins to bleed and I feel the pain, It reminds me that the moment is real; In a world that is full of constructed things,
I bury myself so I don’t have to feel.
Make me into a rock, something that can’t feel— Or a gem, or a metal, or some inanimate thing; Because I’ve felt for too long like a human puppet, Dangling on the ends of society’s strings.
But instead I’m stuck as a fe
The source is unknownThe source is unknown, but the dream is my home; And when I am there, I am never alone. Veiled by a mist of clouds, I see a silhouette; A reflection of everything that hasn’t happened yet.The source is unknown
And shining beyond the horizon is hope, I reach for it, my ambiguous goal; Although its energy permeates my skin, It never reaches my soul.
I'll keep on dreaming, Though the source is unknown; I just know when I'm there, I’m home.
The Real WorldYou freaky consumer driven Nazis, You make a girl like me run away to the city. I grew up in your artificial world, I had less, and was teased or pitied. You’re sports practice and dance classes, You’re clean cut grass and well trained dogs. Racing, competing, to become the kings; Any strays were beaten and flogged. Forcing the children to follow the herd, You ruled the prisons—the neighborhoods— Of the suburbs.The Real World
So I ran to hide behind the mass of urbanites, To get lost in the diversity. Only to find that the very same people, Resided in the city.
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"Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go on to the grave with the song still in them."
-Henry David Thoreau
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