Email Poem

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Poem

A breathing machine
is what I've become
no engine to rev in anger.

A tower of bones
with hands to shake hands
but no strength to hold onto purpose.

These feet making tracks,
they don't fill big shoes
and the shadow I cast will not make the news.

The direction that I'm going,
the perfection that's insisted,
I feel like I've been here 
ten thousand times before.
Looking in a mirror
every single time
I go to open a door.

Every place I go
people are always leaving,
grieving about the greener grass they thought they'd found before.
Why's there no place that I've heard of
where the locals long to stay?
Why are dreams always found in the places far away?

I'm done with doors, it's time for bricks thrown through windows,
no more handshakes, only elbows in chest cavities.
I want to bleed, to bleed,
to stain more lives than I could ever cast in shadow.
You can't see the scars I have so I'll earn the ones you can,
I want to bleed, to bleed,
to bleed.

Who really needs an engine to rev up after all?
With gas prices so high
anger's not cost effective.
And who needs a heart to beat with passion
when blood makes people sick?
Who needs a heart to beat at all
when it won't beat back the dreams
of far away places,
both heaven and obscene.

As long as I'm not giving up 
then I'm not giving in
and my dying breath will fan 
the fire that's within. 

I'm done with doors, it's time for bricks thrown through windows,
no more handshakes, only elbows in chest cavities.
I want to bleed to bleed,
to stain more lives than I could ever cast in shadow.
You can't see the scars I have so i'll earn the ones you can,
I want to be, to be,
to be.

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