buried under flesh and blood and a mask,
he sighs and sleeps and tries to break through.
and i don't mind the struggle if it means
i can know him at all,
and maybe,
well,
make him feel a little bit better.
but why can't the other just stop and ask,
even though they've never known just what to do,
it's on blood and milk and sorrow they've been weaned,
and they're gonna full,
and baby,
hell,
they've gotta look at you.
2 comments:
this is really cool. it makes me think about forced rebirth midlife and escaping from the "comfortable concetration camp" and trying to figure out what you're thinking when it's been so long you can't remember how...
i like.
i like the abstract-ness of this one
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