God Bless America- Land That I Love

It's Hard for me to say, but even harder to realize, That everything I see is laced in pretty lies, It's hard for me to be, as confused as I am about it. I try to turn blind eyes, but twenty- twenty's against me, I can't be the only one feeling concern about it, I try to be objective, but now I'm mad about it, Dig my heels into dirt walls, as I fall deeper, pouring water down the sides, they slough away and grow steeper. I ask for answers, you give me rhetoric, At the risk of out of turn, your making me feel sick. How hard is it to speak, exactly what's on my mind, The harder I fight, the more tightly I wind, What's the point of kindness if it's not taken seriously, I have so much to say, so listen carefully. It started out just fine, until I called you mine, I stare in disbelief while looking all around, Completely unaware, my hands were tightly bound. I've heard of Stockholm Syndrome, but you will surely be, the final nail in our coffin and so the death of me. If freedom was an anchor, you used it as a weapon first. If freedom's found on a battle ground, I guess that means I'm cursed. Now I'm holding on, while living in the past, Surfing in the wake of the shadow that you cast. Down the rabbit hole my dear, with everything to fear. When heels begin to bleed, I consider taking heed. Say I won't hold on much longer as my grip becomes much stronger. You say you need me, I need you too, so we sip the poison before our round of roulette, hoping that the tonic will help us to forget. The toil and trouble that plagues our existence, My stomach is churning in angry resistance. It all comes down too a simple boast, Who's heart can handle most? A glass raised, twinkle in your eye, A single thought, is this how I die? My understanding rises as confidence quickly falls, I have no attack against a heart buffered in brick walls. Unbreakable, uneatable, impenetrable.. Synthetic, guarded, fearful. We've all hurt before, trained out of wanting more. Silenced behind the red tape, tracing outlines in chalk. Waiting for some blue cape, to break through and be our rock, Make it all better, so we send it in a letter to the editor, Who is to busy to be bothered with it. time is running out. This is not the end, it never really is, Even if the plot resembles le mis, Tragedy at every corner but look for the lining, There is no sense in living if it only leads to pinning, so follow the fire until it burns out, Living through pain is how the weak are weeded out.