The Walking Dead
Do you hear the spirits sneak up on you? The ghosts as they shadow your darkest thoughts? Do you hear the sigh of disappointment your conscience utters, as it watches you fall from grace?
We are the walking dead. The eternal victims of happenstance.
We are the walking dead. The relentless children of circumstance.
This isn't a poem, i suck at rhyming, this is inspiration pouring forth in sensless blabber; stemming from anger and spewing forth like bile from the upset stomach of a raving mad lunatic. The words, the meanings get lost somewhere in the onslaught of high pitched sighs and deep pitched screams. Men don't squeal, they roar. That too in the relative security of lonliness, in a car perhaps, along with the wailings of Ulrich or Cobain, or maybe in the loo... staring in the mirror, staring... gawking rather, at the weak and impotent infants that they feel like deep within when they loose, when they are lost, when they're forgotten, when all the gestures are rendered futile and inconsequential by the irony that life comes drenched in.
Men don't cry, oh they would if they could, but somewhere early in life they come to realize that men don't cry... and they spend the rest of thier lives battling the urge to do just that and risk finding out that when the tree falls in the jungle some one does hear it. So no they choose to just let the pain or anger, or just simple frustration withing remain within, gnaw and chew and satiate itself on thier own fears and insecurities, hoping that maybe the evil within will consume the weakness within and only empty smiles will show without....
But i don't want to talk about men and thier fucked up psychosis, not of women and thier fucked up neurosis either. I dun really knwo what i wanna talk about, that perhaps has been my greatest shortcoming but then i dun want to talk abt my own fallability.
The walking dead... the haunting dreams that keep them anchored... like a ghost ship with its crew decaying deep within its rusted, shattered bowels... The walking dead, tied to ideals and beliefs that have no place in the real world nor in any plausible fake one.... The walking dead the walking, talking, laughing dead. Pretending for all its worth to be normal, to be simple. Pretending more for themselves than for any minconstrued sense of responsibility or allusion of conformity. Faking to be alive, faking to be okay, faking every smile, every whisper, every promise every lie.... faking and hoping that the cover holds, that at this masquerade no one can take off thier masks, and praying, secretly ofcourse, to find someone who can see right through and call the bluff. For someone who cans step up, rip of the viel, look them straight in thier bloodshot eyes and scream.... just scream, for no good reason; frsutration perhaps, perhaps anger at having been lied to, sadness even, for the sadness that can shove someone into such hypocrisy.... maybe even hate.Iif not love than hate would do too. Atleast its an emotion, its better then indifference. My enemy may kill me, but atleast he will take the time out to do so, put some effort into it, consider me important enought to be thought about, to be feared... to be considered.
But the walking dead.... they just wait for such a being to cross thier paths, or to cross thier paths with death. Yes. Best freind, salvation... Death. What with the cool flowing robes and that kickass Scyth. To feel that blade cut right thru teh facade and claim the squirming, petrified soul inside, to have it know everything thts been hidden forever, to be laughed at or to be pitied... just to be known, wudn't a meeting with death be worth life? The life of the walking dead certainly. Not yours ofcourse, oh no... not yours. You are happy, you are satisfied, in the least you are 'aight' with your stock in life. You are strong, forthright, confident and justified... you are the living, the joyous, the ultimately fulfilled. You have what you yearn for, and therefore have what you need. You are not the walking dead, you shun teh walking dead. You look at them and roll your eyes, you snicker and whipser behind thier backs. How kinds are you in the unkindest gesture of all...
The walking dead march on, they know, u know? They know the silent taunt of your hidden satisfaction of not being one of them, they know the weight of your conviction in being better than them. They know and they understand, and they silently pray that you never have to be one of them. No, not because they would have you spared from the pain, hell no.... if they could they would rip open your hearts and soak thier unexplicable sorrow in yoru blood so you may get to know what it feels like to be them, to hurt every morning from a pain that can't be understood, can't be justified... no, but the wud rather not have you know the secret sacrifice that makes them better than you. The hidden pleasure that resides only in unsurmountable pain,.. no why wud they give you that? why wud they let you be like them? why would they ever hope to share thier place in the grand scheme of things with the very people who have shunned them to such a fate. They won't, they will march on, as if you matter as little to them as they do to you... they will cringe, but never to be seen, they will sigh but never to be heard. They are the walking dead, they are the eternal brethren of the lost hope, the broken dream.
I am called the walking dead... me and a freind, and a freind of a freind of a friend. We, the walking dead... We, march on.
We are the walking dead. The eternal victims of happenstance.
We are the walking dead. The relentless children of circumstance.
This isn't a poem, i suck at rhyming, this is inspiration pouring forth in sensless blabber; stemming from anger and spewing forth like bile from the upset stomach of a raving mad lunatic. The words, the meanings get lost somewhere in the onslaught of high pitched sighs and deep pitched screams. Men don't squeal, they roar. That too in the relative security of lonliness, in a car perhaps, along with the wailings of Ulrich or Cobain, or maybe in the loo... staring in the mirror, staring... gawking rather, at the weak and impotent infants that they feel like deep within when they loose, when they are lost, when they're forgotten, when all the gestures are rendered futile and inconsequential by the irony that life comes drenched in.
Men don't cry, oh they would if they could, but somewhere early in life they come to realize that men don't cry... and they spend the rest of thier lives battling the urge to do just that and risk finding out that when the tree falls in the jungle some one does hear it. So no they choose to just let the pain or anger, or just simple frustration withing remain within, gnaw and chew and satiate itself on thier own fears and insecurities, hoping that maybe the evil within will consume the weakness within and only empty smiles will show without....
But i don't want to talk about men and thier fucked up psychosis, not of women and thier fucked up neurosis either. I dun really knwo what i wanna talk about, that perhaps has been my greatest shortcoming but then i dun want to talk abt my own fallability.
The walking dead... the haunting dreams that keep them anchored... like a ghost ship with its crew decaying deep within its rusted, shattered bowels... The walking dead, tied to ideals and beliefs that have no place in the real world nor in any plausible fake one.... The walking dead the walking, talking, laughing dead. Pretending for all its worth to be normal, to be simple. Pretending more for themselves than for any minconstrued sense of responsibility or allusion of conformity. Faking to be alive, faking to be okay, faking every smile, every whisper, every promise every lie.... faking and hoping that the cover holds, that at this masquerade no one can take off thier masks, and praying, secretly ofcourse, to find someone who can see right through and call the bluff. For someone who cans step up, rip of the viel, look them straight in thier bloodshot eyes and scream.... just scream, for no good reason; frsutration perhaps, perhaps anger at having been lied to, sadness even, for the sadness that can shove someone into such hypocrisy.... maybe even hate.Iif not love than hate would do too. Atleast its an emotion, its better then indifference. My enemy may kill me, but atleast he will take the time out to do so, put some effort into it, consider me important enought to be thought about, to be feared... to be considered.
But the walking dead.... they just wait for such a being to cross thier paths, or to cross thier paths with death. Yes. Best freind, salvation... Death. What with the cool flowing robes and that kickass Scyth. To feel that blade cut right thru teh facade and claim the squirming, petrified soul inside, to have it know everything thts been hidden forever, to be laughed at or to be pitied... just to be known, wudn't a meeting with death be worth life? The life of the walking dead certainly. Not yours ofcourse, oh no... not yours. You are happy, you are satisfied, in the least you are 'aight' with your stock in life. You are strong, forthright, confident and justified... you are the living, the joyous, the ultimately fulfilled. You have what you yearn for, and therefore have what you need. You are not the walking dead, you shun teh walking dead. You look at them and roll your eyes, you snicker and whipser behind thier backs. How kinds are you in the unkindest gesture of all...
The walking dead march on, they know, u know? They know the silent taunt of your hidden satisfaction of not being one of them, they know the weight of your conviction in being better than them. They know and they understand, and they silently pray that you never have to be one of them. No, not because they would have you spared from the pain, hell no.... if they could they would rip open your hearts and soak thier unexplicable sorrow in yoru blood so you may get to know what it feels like to be them, to hurt every morning from a pain that can't be understood, can't be justified... no, but the wud rather not have you know the secret sacrifice that makes them better than you. The hidden pleasure that resides only in unsurmountable pain,.. no why wud they give you that? why wud they let you be like them? why would they ever hope to share thier place in the grand scheme of things with the very people who have shunned them to such a fate. They won't, they will march on, as if you matter as little to them as they do to you... they will cringe, but never to be seen, they will sigh but never to be heard. They are the walking dead, they are the eternal brethren of the lost hope, the broken dream.
I am called the walking dead... me and a freind, and a freind of a freind of a friend. We, the walking dead... We, march on.
I'm born to trouble
I'm born to fate
Inside a Promise
I can't escape
It's the same old world
But nothing looks the same
Make it rain
Make it rain
I'm born to fate
Inside a Promise
I can't escape
It's the same old world
But nothing looks the same
Make it rain
Make it rain
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