How to Fix The World
an execution, while play
The howling strings
Of the cellos
Of the veins
Of the time
To the discord
Are the who and what,
the how and the why
Ever lost to that
of the cords
of the strings
of the howling
"Fix this", they cry,
the masses whose
words fester and boil,
carried words, spoken indirect
of the leaders
of the struggles
of the home
of the brave
The final breath
of humanities dying words
"in ashes, from ashes"
She speaks, so melancholy
of the future
of the present
of the past
"World!" She pleads
with a cry, so finishing
"Heed and listen!"
To them she speaks
Of the necessary
of the desired
of the curses
of their blessings...
The girl sits on the dusty floor,
Surrounded by odds and ends.
Holding the jigsaw boy, trying to put him together again.
He fell from a very great height,
She sobs for him every night.
None of the pieces fit.
He looks up at her with empty eyes,
The colour of faded blue skies.
His skin is covered in scars and cracks,
Maps that lead her to nowhere
Round and round in circles, like a merry go round.
His soul is scattered around her like glass,
She cuts herself trying to pick the pieces up.
She tries to be distant, she tries to be kind
But in her heart she knows she broke this boy
That lies in pieces at her feet.
She crushed his heart in the palm of her hand
And now she doesn’t know what to do.
She knows that she doesn’t have much time,
Before he falls over this ledge.
He builds these walls between them,
That she will have to climb.
Life has lost its colour and time has lost its grace.
Where his heart was is now an empty space,
Pain consumes his soul.
Its one step forward and two steps back
The darkness is closing in on every side
But still she sits on the dusty floor.
Surrounded by what was and dreaming of what should have been.
The odds and ends of their old life scattered around the floor,
Waiting to trip them up.
In her arms lies jigsaw boy, she is desperately trying to put him back together again.
He fell from a great height,
She still sobs for him in the night,
Weeping for the boy she once loved.
Knowing it was she who broke his soul.
These empty promises are a noose wrapped round our necks.
Im tired of these lies that are littered around the floor,
Each one a tiny mine.
I am just waiting for us to blow.
We are speeding off this cliff,
At a frightening rate,
When we hit the bottom will it be too late?
I hold a gun in my hand,
It’s pointed at our heads.
This love is all I have,
It is all that we have left.
You hold on to my hand still,
But there is no warmth left.
Hostile words and empty stares,
Fill the air between our lips,
That have not met for so long
Now I see them moving
Saying "give me the gun".
You grab it from my hand,
I push right up against you.
The blackness fills our minds,
And a quiet space replaces
The life that we once had.
I think I might regret this...
And this is how the story goes
There is no high in these winter lows
The love that left me has faded away
My tears blur the night into day
For I am the bird with the broken wings
Who has fallen behind the flock,
Now I have fallen by the way side.
With no one to pick me up.
The love that left me died in my arms,
Now things are all messed up.
I am floating beneath the water,
But I cannot get back up.
The silence floats around me,
Where there used to be your voice.
I reach out in the dark,
Hoping for your touch.
All there is, is empty sheets,
A reminder of my loss.
I shudder at what my life has become,
Fragments of glass spread around the floor,
I cut myself trying to pick the pieces up.
But this is how my story goes,
There was no high in my winter lows.
The love I lost hurt too much,
Now there is no night, there is no day.
Don’t go with him.
If he invites you over, don’t do it.
Because he’ll reel you in with perfect words, and innocent eyes full of secrets you’d love to explore and you’ll find yourself in a bed that smells of him, sharing a kiss that tastes like a question and being consumed by his touch and his words and his unfailing ability to love you for a few moments.
You’ll feel a desire you didn’t know existed and fear the touches you were craving before you got to be so close. You’ll wonder if the songs were meant for you, or a repeat of anything he’s ever tried on other girls.
He’ll stop speaking and existing when life forces you to coexist in the same bubble of air space, but he’ll have long since imprinted himself inside your bones like a Trojan virus.
You’ll spend countless hours thinking it over, exasperated, exhilarated, almost in love with the simple idea, with the wonderful illusion, but you will tick question marks off your fingers and twist your tongue seven times to fail at talking.
Musicians are spell casters, and spell casters are evil.