Monday 2 March 2009 photo 1/1
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and i can't become my sister when it's all been said and done. her completions won't complete me. i've divided me by one. i'm the answer to her riddle. i'm the caution to her wind. i'm the spoon wedged between tongue and teeth beneath her trembling grin. and i dare add my revision for i dare not suffer twice. And i dare not reinvent the past. And i dare not be the christ. And i welcome every sufferer. And i welcome every sole. Sitting in this room, on wooden bench, waiting for joy to call. and i've suffered her alone, lord. perturbed by my every thought, how I've tried to strip them to the bone. i've struggled and i've fought. every jealous warped intention; smuggled and sewn into genes. every hidden half-breed tendency exploiting me in me.
each time i put them under, but still they wanna test me. i cry out through the thunder, and you storm right past me. i search and i ponder. i question and i wonder. i roar and i thunder. please let me in.
i've been waiting her for what now seems the better of an hour. i've raised every crippled question from the dead and given power to the absence of my sanity. the presence of a fear that lies in between forgotten dreams that pile up every year. up above the highest testaments, down below the wooden floor; there's a gutted room, pitch black at noon, beneath a hidden door. deep within, you'll find the attributes of every sunken man who must bang his head against the dead each day he tries to stand. and he's standing pressed against the very woman that he loves. kissing eyes and lips, embracing hips, surrendering to her touch. and just at the very moment that he touches heart to heart, she pulls from his touch, 'cause it's too much to mend what's apart.
each time i put them under, but still they wanna test me. i cry out through the thunder, and you storm right past me. i search and i ponder. i question and i wonder. i roar and i thunder. please let me in.
i've been waiting her for what now seems the better of an hour. i've raised every crippled question from the dead and given power to the absence of my sanity. the presence of a fear that lies in between forgotten dreams that pile up every year. up above the highest testaments, down below the wooden floor; there's a gutted room, pitch black at noon, beneath a hidden door. deep within, you'll find the attributes of every sunken man who must bang his head against the dead each day he tries to stand. and he's standing pressed against the very woman that he loves. kissing eyes and lips, embracing hips, surrendering to her touch. and just at the very moment that he touches heart to heart, she pulls from his touch, 'cause it's too much to mend what's apart.
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