cyberwulf
10-08-2004, 11:23 PM
And again the endless cycle continues as the bells of day calls me to awake
Snatched and transplanted, worked like the ants that make no difference
Until the movement of my joints and knuckles create the aching pain inside my bones
That I seem to know so well, for this is the enemy that I keep close
Stricken from a distance, I wrap my naked body with the cloths that I’ve worn thin
Drenched with the forgotten work ethic that escapes from my skin
Covering me with the foul stench that is only attached to my upper lip
And as I move my way through the room that is a mirror of my cluttered mind
I find the jeans faded by the endless perseverance rubbed off
And perspired upon the ground on which I depend upon
The random articles of clothing upon my body is soiled with the clear aspiration
Of Inspiration woven through the threads that have lost its hold upon life
It’s self.
The faded stains that I’ve struggled to remove is just an ill reminder
Of the dreams that I’ve forgotten, confiscated from my body by the
Queens of the ants and the Kings of the men, plastered onto my shirt
That I wear proud like the discolored stains that protrude from my cotton stitched metals
Entering the small world govern by the evils I’ve never seen, my head hangs high
As the weight of the dreams I’ll never achieve, hang from my shoulders
And the aspiration for inspiration hangs loosely from the cotton woven fabric
For my beaten cloths shows the work I’ve done
Showing that I hold the weight of the people inside the world
Not just weight of the world
And until my days of work have been filled and my body clocks out
I will continue to wear my cloths like the metals I’ll never receive
Snatched and transplanted, worked like the ants that make no difference
Until the movement of my joints and knuckles create the aching pain inside my bones
That I seem to know so well, for this is the enemy that I keep close
Stricken from a distance, I wrap my naked body with the cloths that I’ve worn thin
Drenched with the forgotten work ethic that escapes from my skin
Covering me with the foul stench that is only attached to my upper lip
And as I move my way through the room that is a mirror of my cluttered mind
I find the jeans faded by the endless perseverance rubbed off
And perspired upon the ground on which I depend upon
The random articles of clothing upon my body is soiled with the clear aspiration
Of Inspiration woven through the threads that have lost its hold upon life
It’s self.
The faded stains that I’ve struggled to remove is just an ill reminder
Of the dreams that I’ve forgotten, confiscated from my body by the
Queens of the ants and the Kings of the men, plastered onto my shirt
That I wear proud like the discolored stains that protrude from my cotton stitched metals
Entering the small world govern by the evils I’ve never seen, my head hangs high
As the weight of the dreams I’ll never achieve, hang from my shoulders
And the aspiration for inspiration hangs loosely from the cotton woven fabric
For my beaten cloths shows the work I’ve done
Showing that I hold the weight of the people inside the world
Not just weight of the world
And until my days of work have been filled and my body clocks out
I will continue to wear my cloths like the metals I’ll never receive