So tell me what you see.
Do you see anguish or see ecstasy?
It’s worrying, what you might find of me without the poetry
to save my face, to save my skin.
It’s so delicate…
Ripped limb from limb,
turned from soil into stone,
no more shall I be held in this prison of song.
Sewn from void to form,
this mask an old home,
it is infinite, it is destiny’s fool.
A fool am I…
A fool have I been.
So tell me what you see.
Do you see a Pilgrim or a human being?
Or just another dancing monkey whose songs you want to sing?
So tell me what you think,
what you think my reasoning to be
as to why my ego runs so unrestrained and rampant in my verse for all to see.
Oh, what have I to gain?
I’ve grown so tired of these games.
My humanity, I’ll reclaim in the end if I just let it be.
So tell me what you’d feel if I reclaimed my being.
Would you feel joy or feel pain if this were all to cease?
Just as easily, this story could be you or me.
We all travel universally in poetry and art
born from our fears and from our mystery.
Oh, what have I to gain from writing of my pain
when just as well I could write from happiness?
Oh, what have I to gain, when here I am again,
pouring my shadow into song?
It’s been all too fucking long since I wrote for simplicity’s sake.
So tell me what you feel, my friend.
Tell me how you ache.
Tell me all the same what you think this could mean,
but know it’s going to end.
A fool am I.
A fool have I been.
No more, no more.
