Take me back to when the grass was greener,
When I didn't have to think so much,
'cause now my thoughts are getting meaner,
And I miss when I could feel a touch,
A glance of warmth in my cold soul,
Riddled with scars and pockmark-holes,
When my heart wasn't buried underneath,
Like the soft flesh of blind moles,
Six feet under is my instinct,
To protect myself when I am weak,
The layers of earth are a shield
So that I needent kneel,
So I avoid the pressure and needent bow,
To the crushing weight of what's atop me,
That's six feet away from my 'here and now',
And I can't fight what I can't see.
But I can't feel sometimes
What's not in my line of sight,
And if I refuse to crack the blinds,
Can 'I will' ever replace 'I might'?
I used to feel like I may drown,
Under the weight of crushing depths,
The obstacles shackles holding me down,
Slowing each one of my steps.
Now I keep the dirt,
The grime, the pain, the sorrow,
So I may see the hope that skirts
The edge of shining tomorrow.
I'm used, too used, to living in fear,
In a family that doesn't know me,
And with the blights that are nearly here,
I need the ground above to be.
Be above and not beneath my feet,
To spare me the toxic waste of emissions,
Drown out the noise of the fleet,
Caused by the decisions of commissions,
I cannot be hurt by what I hide from.
And if I feel the vibrations of stomping boots,
And I feel the urge to scream out with them,
I need to stay here with the roots,
Or I myself may be condemned.
No matter how deep I dig,
I can't escape the fire locked away,
The outrage caused by the pig,
The voice that screams 'you have a say!'
But the world is painted red,
And we know it's the only way,
As large figures find themselves dead,
We show them the bed they made in which they'll lay.
Blue skin must become blood soaked,
In order to be heard.
We must be crimson if provoked,
To match the red of the absurd.
I have fought to survive,
And I'll be damned to die at the hand
Of a man who's part of a money driven hive
Who would get rid of us if he could give the command.
But I am surrounded by red,
And I cannot stand,
Or I may be led
To a fate lost in the sands.
YOU ARE READING
Air Conditioning
PoésieVent poetry It's frowned upon putting your heart on your sleeve with such a weak code like a three number pin. For both of our sakes I hope you aren't the type to spend your time digging your claws in and working to decode someone else's words an...
