Post by Cullen on Mar 11, 2008 18:47:59 GMT -6
I ask this of you Mr. Cricket:
My skin, why does it drip?
How does it melt from these pale bones?
Why do I need a new persona,
One for each new day?
Can I escape tomorrow’s?
The wind is bitter, now the last
of my ditch efforts, Into the Snow.
How, Mr. Cricket, shall I escape
From this place forged from
My minds delusions.
A speckle of truth to break these bars,
Echoed, the answer through the halls
My Jail – walls – crumbled.
Now that I am out,
I can begin to be honest to you Mr. Cricket.
I find reality painful.
I’m chronicled, not as an individual,
But as a generation.
My empty face isn’t needed
The hands that chronicle this
They drip crimson ink.
They harden, rocks now, oozing rubies.
And now, I am bound for the bog,
With only you Mr. Cricket.
Though the vines will glare
And the muck will raven,
They won’t cut close enough to heart.
As tears, Drops of liquid memory, liquid gold
Tears for kin and friends – Come
As advertised, I’ll look like a stranger someday,
If my face continues to melt
Mr. Cricket, even you won’t recognize me.
That day will be here before we know,
Yet, until that day has come,
I, an outcast of society,
Will watch hearts burn.
Until the ivory flames produce
An unknown reality of dominant ideology.
How, Mr. Cricket, is that possible?
For this reality could only be an
Oh so reassuring illusion.
One in which things survive
That should not
A truth in her hate,
A love in her lies.
Perhaps, perhaps this is nothing
It is a different world
Echoed with my minds delusions,
Where sparks fly, and the wind knows,
The wind knows more than even you, Mr. Cricket.
NATURE ALLOWS CONFORMITY
Birds of a feather are
Now dead to me.
And flocking together
Has become a thing of the past.
Why Mr. Cricket?
Now, Bound for the bog,
I go.
My skin, why does it drip?
How does it melt from these pale bones?
Why do I need a new persona,
One for each new day?
Can I escape tomorrow’s?
The wind is bitter, now the last
of my ditch efforts, Into the Snow.
How, Mr. Cricket, shall I escape
From this place forged from
My minds delusions.
A speckle of truth to break these bars,
Echoed, the answer through the halls
My Jail – walls – crumbled.
Now that I am out,
I can begin to be honest to you Mr. Cricket.
I find reality painful.
I’m chronicled, not as an individual,
But as a generation.
My empty face isn’t needed
The hands that chronicle this
They drip crimson ink.
They harden, rocks now, oozing rubies.
And now, I am bound for the bog,
With only you Mr. Cricket.
Though the vines will glare
And the muck will raven,
They won’t cut close enough to heart.
As tears, Drops of liquid memory, liquid gold
Tears for kin and friends – Come
As advertised, I’ll look like a stranger someday,
If my face continues to melt
Mr. Cricket, even you won’t recognize me.
That day will be here before we know,
Yet, until that day has come,
I, an outcast of society,
Will watch hearts burn.
Until the ivory flames produce
An unknown reality of dominant ideology.
How, Mr. Cricket, is that possible?
For this reality could only be an
Oh so reassuring illusion.
One in which things survive
That should not
A truth in her hate,
A love in her lies.
Perhaps, perhaps this is nothing
It is a different world
Echoed with my minds delusions,
Where sparks fly, and the wind knows,
The wind knows more than even you, Mr. Cricket.
NATURE ALLOWS CONFORMITY
Birds of a feather are
Now dead to me.
And flocking together
Has become a thing of the past.
Why Mr. Cricket?
Now, Bound for the bog,
I go.