I
Healing words both yours, mine ... are understood and mis-understood
II
Poets: true artists or activists somehow know poetic license, justice, injustice
The sunshine in my dying field
Your cheer heals my isolated madness
If only my wordsmithery healed
All of your hidden sadness
I carry a secret that my tongue denies
I'm afraid I cannot bear myself
Though I tell everyone pretty lies
I'm afraid I have grown to hate myself
The plan was to spin a rhyme
Maybe a song of childish bliss
But I hate the night time
Forced to continue on like this
I do not care that I have no home
My hunger troubles me none
It's knowing that I'm very alone
That what once was 3 is now 1
I'd shed this encroaching darkness
If I had never seen these bricks
But the wall has grown into blackness
And this isn't something I can fix
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