Something Lola said. Something I've always sorta known. Something about nice guys and where they finish, something about animals in cages, something about me that I don't think you really know, or have perhaps somehow forgotten.
All this hiding, all this assumption. All this frustration welling into anger, falling into open holes of resentment and confusion, calling out with a voice no one seems to hear from above -- above where all the skies seem as blue as a close-up eye and the wolves would still scratch at keyholes in the night if only they could.
It's almost like my devotions are glasses that I can't take off. Like everything I do hides the true color and shape of my eyes from you. Others can see it, others refuse to see anything else. But here, here in the world we know with it's masked spider demands, weekend work hours, and demon sleep that takes, takes, takes you away from me -- all you seem to see is the visage I've taken for us. The sanctuary I provide, the security you treasure like a favorite comforter across the welcoming embrace of a clean red couch.
But an open eye won't let you sleep,
and wolves don't take out the trash.
It's like somehow I can't be both for you.
no matter how badly I want to be.
But of course, I do it to you as well, don't I? Our time like lenses, thickening year after year to correct cataracts we've both perhaps discovered in recent times that we don't really have. But instead of clarity, it's as if we've taken up farsightedness as a crutch, taking solace in the miles away instead of what's right here up close, unless we put the glasses back on. Just for reading, only when I really need them, I know I should really get contacts, but after all these years I guess I've just grown accustomed to having him there...
"Tell me what you don't like about yourself"
"Tell me what you don't like about me"
"Tell me what you don't like about us."
Take off your glasses.
Please, take off your glasses.
All this hiding, all this assumption. All this frustration welling into anger, falling into open holes of resentment and confusion, calling out with a voice no one seems to hear from above -- above where all the skies seem as blue as a close-up eye and the wolves would still scratch at keyholes in the night if only they could.
It's almost like my devotions are glasses that I can't take off. Like everything I do hides the true color and shape of my eyes from you. Others can see it, others refuse to see anything else. But here, here in the world we know with it's masked spider demands, weekend work hours, and demon sleep that takes, takes, takes you away from me -- all you seem to see is the visage I've taken for us. The sanctuary I provide, the security you treasure like a favorite comforter across the welcoming embrace of a clean red couch.
But an open eye won't let you sleep,
and wolves don't take out the trash.
It's like somehow I can't be both for you.
no matter how badly I want to be.
But of course, I do it to you as well, don't I? Our time like lenses, thickening year after year to correct cataracts we've both perhaps discovered in recent times that we don't really have. But instead of clarity, it's as if we've taken up farsightedness as a crutch, taking solace in the miles away instead of what's right here up close, unless we put the glasses back on. Just for reading, only when I really need them, I know I should really get contacts, but after all these years I guess I've just grown accustomed to having him there...
"Tell me what you don't like about yourself"
"Tell me what you don't like about me"
"Tell me what you don't like about us."
Take off your glasses.
Please, take off your glasses.
[Listening to: Razed in Black, "Damage Inc."]
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