Sick of it all, right
Wrong, wishful thinking I guess
5 responsibilities but three left in the dirt
2 wonderful gifts but no change
Well, I'm not your batting cage
I have a point to prove
I made honest mistakes, but that's my past
I'm sick of it all
You stand there and you watch as your family
Falls into deep depression you don't
You don't care that your daughter on the streets or that your grandkids are one
I'm just sick of it all
So I have a point to prove
No, never, I will never take my stress out on my flesh and blood
I will never be my mothers daughter, I'm not you
I have this point to prove
Did you know,
No, I guess not
My point to prove is..
I'm sick of this discombobulated family and you're the center of it
I'm sick of the blame
Sick the whoa is me
Sick of it all, wrong
You right, we long gone because id rather be alone than be sick
Plain sick of all
And that's my point to prove..
Perceived as kind hearted,
Gentle and sweet,
But no one ever listened to the voice in me.
No one heard her cry.
I wonder has anyone cared to listen I dream that someday I fall deep.
Deep into this oblivion space,
A space as kind and sweet as my dreams,
As my dreams grow so do I.
Imagination station dimming.
Reality growing down goes another.
Tears running down my face.
Perceived to be a young and dumb,
High School drop out,
But hold more knowledge then your average investor.
People push me step on me and call me names.
Fail to see that I, I will be your boss my dreams fade to shades of blues and grays.
My dreams so sweet,
My dreams fade on one heartless day.
They, the world, your people,
fell to realize, fell to understand
That I will come back and I will come back hard.
Have we lost sight of what's most important?
Till The end of Time, until Time stops It's Count. You Told Me that You would love Me. You told me that our love as The North Star would never die. The walks along The Bridge. Hands of Mother of Pearl, of Oyster Shell. The Water is considerate to our conversations. Never talking over us. It pays not attention to our scribbles of laughter or my tears of belief. But yet the naysayers to the corner stare with eyes of bitter and lips of sweet. We Pay them No Mind, Our Youth, Our in God We Trust, brings forth This Melancholy, This more than just Lust. From Canals we were born and into the grave We shall go. But in the meantime, on this night, in the days to follow and the years which will bring forth our Seeds of Root. On This Bridge our lives will extend. Meaning has taken on a new name. Kisses have grown up. What gets left behind will follow and what is brought forth Shall come up even Stronger. The Strength in your letters which came once per month. They brought You back to me. In my nights of dented pillows and soaked tissue. War is an unkind stranger to me. You say not to worry. That You know it's weakness and that Your return will neither drag on nor be in vain. I try to explain this to A Two Year Old with blonde curls and blue eyes like The Aurora Lights. She scribbles her laughter and I scribble the ink across the paper, smearing the print with unsteady fingers of sweat. I haven't the words they have left me. They wait for You back at the bridge on that night where we knew a love which most will never find. Many a time I've had to tear up the letters that I had written to You. The Paper which My Words are written upon is no longer plyable from the tears where Oceans run dry. But Yet at Our Bridge I Stand once more. And the words and the used up paper falls over the side of our bridge. My finger tips can no longer bear the weight of the heaviness to which my heart has now to for so many years. I stare at our little girl with blonde curls and blues like the aurora lights. She is no longer just two. Time has turned her now into a grown Woman of twenty two. I stare at the lovers Who pace their steps so evenly by. Unsure if they notice my eyes of bitter and my lips of sweet. Unkind War. A stranger I would never shake hands with. Nor shall I ever forgive You for taking My Love from My Arms. From My Sight. I See You for what You Are. Just A Taker of Lives. 10 fingers, 10 toes where 20 ought.
The Pain Tears Open The Stitching, Once Again My Tears Fall Down Lethal as Acid Rain. The Monotony in Life-lntent on The Material The Sexual Flings. For I Am Mateless, No God can Calm Me. No Individual but That of My King. I long to Lye Rested for Eternity by His Side. I live in The Knowing That Just Maybe This is A Possibility-A Laying Down Eternal by His Side. Pen to Paper, I Tear Up This Paper, I Long for The Times Past When Life was Simpler When Love was More Purer. A Need for The Other That was Irreplaceable. An Unconditional Nurturing Where A Face can go Faceless A Body can go Bodiless. Sex Provided An Escape...And The One Whom I Am Sleeping with is not Thy Enemy. I Want A Non-Frivolous Union. I Want A Love That Loves back. With No Postage Stamp of Return. I Want A Love That I Cannot live Without. A Love for Whom The Bells will Toll. But, He does not Exist for Me. The Angels Whisper Sweet Nothings for The Blessed Ones Whose Hearts are not Pining For A Love. Pining For A Life in Pictures where Wrongs are Made Right. Happenings Prelude Reason And When The Dust Settles; My Cowboy Rides Off into The Sunset without Me. God Henceforth does not Exist so Therefore I Do Not.
Waiting for A Change. A Change in Behavior, A Change for What is for What would Soon Be. If I had Known Years before that This Dejavu of A Time and of A Place for Which I Now Stand that This is Where My Feet would Now Cement Themselves, I Would have Hailed Taxi's of An Alien Kind to get Me long past Out of Here. A Life Where My Accomplishments are Ignored, My Sensitivity is Desensitized. A Conditional Love that Only God Himself could Cope With. With My Hatred Now on The Rise. A Hatred that can Climb The Steps of The Empire State Building. Where Time Here has not An End nor A Beginning To It. She Knows that It is Only in The Arms of A God Whom She is Sure Holds No Existence Here that She waits for An Answer That will not Come too Soon. In This Mindfield A Death Trap Awaits? Where InJustices Persist On in The Families of The Children Who go Missing And The Killers Who go Unfound. Only To Hijack Their Next Victim. In This Place where Innocence Lyes Dormant in The Eyes of A Child. And Mediocracy is Awoken in The Eyes of The Adult.
Hands drenched in massacres.
Whoever knew writing
bloodbaths could cleanse
the soul that overflows
with last words.
Last night you made a promise
to the sun, that as long
as it rises you will never
I overheard you
over the silence; your
golden. Never let
them take that from you.