Weak Is Not My Name

Throughout the times I’ve busted, left out in the rain and slightly rusted, what dreams were truly trusted, to the only god we should have ever entrusted?

In and out of internal jail, the spirit inside to hail, the right to lose and to fail, could not fly on wings broken and frail.

Cause now I’m righteously angry, for once the master serves it dog, weak is not my name no more, no longer lost in fog.

The Man With the Straw Heart

There once was a man with a straw heart who loved the people around him more then he could fathom and certainly more then he wanted to most of the time.

He saw their attachment to the material world, saw how they cared more for personal gain and trinkets then the people around them and although it filled him with fire, fire enough to burn his straw heart for only a moment at a time, and then he forgave them.

The man watched as love and friendship were tossed aside on arbitrary conditions of survival no longer needed, saw them cling to damp perverted animal skins like the caveman clung to the torch to scare away the night and sighed.

For him his love of the world was a mystery; to him the world was cold as ice, no one wanted to know him, no one could get close to the toxic strands that fell from his straw heart, weeping like a wound.

In reality this was only his love of all around him pushing the infection out, cleansing it and protecting the gift he had, which was the gift ever boy receives but a ‘man’ soon forgets.