|
In my mind, not enough birds have died |
|
in the shadow of this once cast stone |
|
and i'm not well, but i am ill at ease |
|
with all the buttons still left to sew |
|
through needles eyes, see me sharper than i see myself.. |
|
so you should stitch me in to stop me from bleeding |
|
and education can be fickle i think, sometimes the more you learn, the more you lose a sense of what you think you know |
|
about all the buttons still left to sew |
|
and i'm outside myself more and more these days |
|
so you should stitch my skin skin to stop me from bleeding all over this fresh sing and i... |
|
aknowledge all the corners, and all the freshly painted walls, that bear no former scars |
|
since they're patched up and over now |
|
but i was born of miners and im designed to chip away, tunnel in the dark.. |
|
but why must it always come down to some unseen contender? |
|
i don't know |
|
when hatchlings all we are, just battling the whitewash |
|
birds above, sharks below.. |
|
though i feel empathy towards the ones who threaten me |
|
i'd still leave them soft-shelled to the beaks of crows... |
|
but every now and then a tempest blows, and the veneer I keep comes unsewn, but will you ever read me well? |
|
I can only assume so. |
|
and i'm bouyant like a flotsam man, now relegated by the waves to land. |
|
they dry me like a brittle bone, paraded like a polished stone. |
|
and that's what you ought to know. |
|
i'd see them smashed on the reefs below. |
