talk about your bad days
when everything seems to concentrate
out of one point and one single section
everything seems to come in pieces
but always from the same puzzle
and i have to sit in wonder and sit in awe
at all the pictures on the wall
i painted each one
i was the designer
architect supreme
in each one of them you can see dreams
my, how wonderful they all seem
and in each one of them
an inperfection, a smear of hurt and shame
in each one a fear, a prediction, each one the same
luke has decided he sick of these games
he isn't quite sure which piece he is
but he has no intention of being played
nor ignored
nor blamed
this was all my fault, even if i am not him
a moment, a glimmer, a slight of hand
a trick
a simple gesture and a game of me
who is him and not quite the same
though i have been feeling myself lately
and not just in bed
i think i actually have a shape
i'd be the last to admit it, too
defintion is something i'm not so accustomed to
am i so easily defined?
that you could take a pencil
draw around me
and in the outline
define my insides
maybe in time he will accept that
but for now he feels it neccessary
to talk to himself and fuck any reason
at this young age of his
there is still much rebellion left in him
who was i talking to and who am i?
who wrote that and if not me
where was i when he happened?
words can come from me but not by my hand
and in my last breath
my last hope for reason
i realize i want to fake myself
i want to be more than what i am
and all of them are me
and in me
i always see their reflection |
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