| I
can see your soul I can see your soul
In the midnight black depths of your eyes
And it scares me.
Not so much what is in there,
Not so much what you everyday
Think, feel and do
But that I can see it.
I
look into your eyes
As you hold me
Ever so gently
(Don't ever let me go)
And I see your smile
(Safety in monotony)
Yet I never tire of it.
'No,
go on, you go ahead'
'Thank you, my chivalrous sir
But what were you going to say?'
You'll never tell
You never do
(Just don't sell any gold bullion,
My quiet friend.)
But
now, I look into your eyes
And my thoughts become yours
I search, like a secretary
In a filing cabinet
Til I find the desired answer,
Or question.
Whatever happened to
National Security??
So...
Why am I looking
At the real you??
You want me to know something??
Have you finally figured out
That I want to know
What makes you tick? Like clockwork?
I don't need batteries though
To understand you.
( I thought I did)
I thought I'd never know
But now I do.
So
what am I looking for??
A buff manilla folder, with
A neatly labelled heading?
Or a post-it note, stuck somewhere
Hastily scribbled upon
With your co-worker's pen?
Why can't you just tell me?
Do I want to know?
You swore to protect me
To never hurt me.
So tell me what you're thinking
Please??
|
The
Furniture Years
She cares no more
For politics
Or friendships
Or bell times.
She no longer sighs in relief
At the start of lunch.
Initials carved labouriously
Into her once-varnished surface
No longer cut into her heart.
She cares no more
If she is kicked, bashed or tipped
Or turned by her users.
Her once valiant desire
To remain as she was made
Has disappeared;
Along with her will to live.
(Interlude)
This is strange ( I think )
as the desire to live
in inaminate objects
is often stronger than that of humans.
School desks, Ladies and Gentlemen,,
Are not high up in the social structure.
No one cares much about their feelings.
So they ardently try not
to be overlooked
as mere objects;
Rather to escape dismissal
as mindless followers
of furniture mentality.
She cares no more
For politics
or friendships
or bell times.
She no longer rushes out
to lunch.
She no longer engraves
with passion
His intials under hers.
She cares no more
If she is teased, abused or dissed
or shunned by 'them'.
Her once-valiant desire
To be herself, or one of 'them'
Has disappeared
Along with her will to live.
It's not strange ( I think )
It's becoming common
That the desire to live
Of my generation
Is less than that of
Inanimate objects.
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