=Oliver=
We hold on to the lies to feel free,
So shackled by smiles, so empty.
We're scared of the war, so we've forgotten who we are.
We've traded in hope for safety, we're raised in the smoke,
Insisting that we're all too tired to light the fire,
And shake the earth.
The music was flowing from my headphones into my ears. Blocking out the world around me. I could feel my feet hitting the side walk in a steady rhythm to the beats of 'crown the empire's machines'
But if all we are is just machines, then let's become a miracle
And break free from these chains.
We must be more than just machines,
So let them hear our hearts, so let them hear our hearts.
So let them hear our hearts, so let them hear our hearts!
My backpack was bouncing on my back. Almost pushing me forward towards my house, or as I like to call it my living hell. If this is even what you can call living. I guess you could call it surviving, or battling death. Beating death day by day.
Where will you run when there's no place left for you to hide?
When you're faced with the flood, will you stand for the future,
And swallow your pride?
Lifting my arm up I shake back my sleeve. The digital, black watch on my wrist read 3:04pm.
Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one who dares to dream!
I scream at the top of my lungs, I hope that I'm proven wrong!
All my bracelets clang together as I drop my arm again. My eyes flicker to my wrist. My memory flickers to the pain. In a way both my eyes and memory are looking in the same place.
But if all we are is just machines, then let's become a miracle
And break free from these chains.
We must be more than just machines, so let them hear our hearts
So let them hear our hearts!
Turning down the last street of my journey. I looked up at the green, rusted street sign 'Fisher Drive' .
'Home sweet home' I think bitterly to myself. Drawing out my iPod from my jeans pocket I lower the volume of my music.
Where will you run when there's no place left for you to hide?
When you're faced with the flo-
Then words becoming muffled the cutting out all together. Pulling the headphones out of my ears I wrapped them around my iPod then shoved it all into my pocket at once.
'Here comes hell, seventh house on the right..and oh look at that they didn't even attempt to bring in the trash cans.'
Grabbing the steal garbage bin from the curb I lifted it carrying it to the backyard. My eyes scanning the front porch, the old brown paint pealing, my eyes searched the two story house for any lights or movements. The cracked windows looked still. Almost dead, but I knew waiting inside were my foster parents from hell. The devils themselves. Cutting across the dry, dead grass and unkept gardens toward the side gate picking up a broken shingle that's fallen from the roof on my way. Kicking open the rotting wodden gate it slamed open; breaking off the hinge in the process.
"FUCK!! You fucking idiot. Stupid gate!" I shouted. Swinging the garbage can around me, I let it bang against the side of the house. Resting in its place. Scooping up the door I leaned it against the wall beside the trash can. The bottom of the rotting wood was clean of paint from scrapping against the cracking pathment of the side walkway.
Turning around the side of the house and into the backyard. 'The backyard' if you could even call it that, grass only covered bits of the yard and its dry and dead. The rest of the yard is dirt, mud or gravel. Tire marks were pressed deep into the dirt. Rusted shelving units are nailed to the fence linning the property and to the back house wall itself. Car parts old and new are scattered on the shelving untils and ground around them. A tool shed with walls covered in dirt and moss starting to climb the bottom of the sides was placed in the far left corner. Cars. Cars were everywhere, all parked in messy rows, all kinds of cars. Jeeps, Volkswagens, PT Cruisers, Vans, Mini Vans; nothing to expensive. Able to be missed and forgotten. Some were old some; were new.
