I am dust and I can’t help but feel a little dusty
Pounded down on the ground after a Chuck Norris Roundhouse
Kick to the face and there you were again with the watching
and the hands-off mentality. Here I was getting my spine
ripped off like some Mortal Kombat Fatality and I’m
supposed to kneel down and tell you “thanks for having me?”
I think we’ve got this backwards and to paraphrase Trent –
Somebody owes someone a great big apology and I’m not so sure
If I’m the one who should say sorry. Sure, I bought into the lie –
How you’re more awesome than Superman…and Superman can fly!
They threw words around like omnipotent and omnipresent
So you must have watched them fight against The Star and Crescent,
Watched people suffer and die throughout the centuries, so for someone
with all that power, I’m not impressed and I can’t understand
why you can’t lend a bigger hand. “To whom much has been given,
much will be required” wrote Luke, divinely inspired — but you’ve
got everything, Jack, and nobody holds you accountable
even though your inaction is quite palpable.
Today, you remind people that they are dust –
some sort of reality check to keep your sheep in check.
To that I say “You are pixie dust”
and I’ve got news for you, Tinker Bell –
I’m not Peter Pan.
Handing out pain with his fingers
Ending their lives with his swords
Killing them swiftly with his blades
Killing them swiftly with his blades
Tearing their whole lives with his swords
Killing them swiftly with his blades
I heard about this Spartan,
his awesome fighting style
and so I picked up this game
to play it for a while
and there he was in combat
tearing a cyclops’ eye
He was this tortured reaver,
so lonely in a crowd
He shreds them all like lettuce
and yells his lines out loud.
His life bar they diminished
but he kept fighting on
His fate depended on me,
which fueled a deep despair.
His last fight was with some god
with orange-colored hair
and though he gained forgiveness
he knows he had done wrong
I hope you will be happy looking back at all the tears you never had to cry,
at all the pain you never had to feel, and all the love you chose to never share.
I hope it is somehow satisfying knowing that you were never truly hurt
because you were never truly vulnerable — always distant, never close,
never one to start — ever so afraid that having to say Goodbye
would break your fragile heart.
“Pain is good sometimes,” she said — this memory, this ghost inside my head –
this imprint of an old friend who has since ignored, forgotten, erased.
Pain is good sometimes, I say, surrounded by family and friends
creating immortal memories I cherish, wearing them with joy and honor,
like Auden’s rose on St. Cecilia’s Day long past the painful heartbreak
of having to say Goodbye.
Then what do you do when they forget about you — when you find yourself
preserving memories only you care to remember? Is your heart big enough
to hold the dark empty void left behind each time you gave a part
of yourself away? What happens when you vanish from their lives and
the vow you made to always remember turns into an eternal wish
that you could somehow forget?