...like out talks together.
The more we feel guilty about putting frivolous tones to tragedy
the more we dig trenches
in our bodies
and seep into the darkness.
He doesn't mean to make light of suicide bombers
or the human torches of Tibet
and I don't mean to downplay epidemics in Sudan
or the women muffled and mutilated in alleys I drive by daily
But there is something about being violated in a place of comfort
that leaves a choice of which one I want remember.
There's something about being raped in your childhood bedroom
and being the hand that feeds the pills that ends your life,
that makes all of this easier to swallow.
I still have fond memories of that bedroom
and at least he chose his destinies.
But we're not allowed to say such disrespectful things in public
so we dig through psychology books and therapy sessions
trying to tie burdens to our wings
and not let go of this earth,
of pain,
of the suffering they expect us to feel lest they think us inhuman,
He stands at the edge of buildings wanting to feel a little less than human,
I stand at the edge of my mind feeling a bit more human,
feeling like I can fly,
feeling like the gravity cementing me to my past
has always been a choice.
This has got to be how people feel right before they're institutionalized
but I'm thinking there's got to be some validity in insanity
and this is crazy.
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