So it’s back to the mountain
Where monsters go not to die
But to live among the many
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The slammed door and the silence
The slammed door said I’m hurting.
The silence said I’m scared.
The walls between us listened
when no one seemed to care.
The portraits on the wall,
oh how they seemed stare,
where deep within night
the stars poured ever clear.
The door knob turned eventually
as silence did it’s head,
the sea between us parted and
the portraits went to bed.
While all the world was sleeping
with all their monsters fed,
the boy and girl slept soundly
no sooner had they met.
Let’s call this one Gibberish, for dramatic effect.
We are what we make ourselves.
Prophets. Martyrs. Fools.
There is no difference.
If it sells, it sells.
And the more grotesque, the better.
Greater pain equals greater possibilities.
Blood is not just blood, it’s profit.
It has and will always be.
The grand illusion.
Story time before the big sleep.
You see,
faith can be a very clumsy thing.
A very scary thing.
But it doesn’t make a difference either way.
Prophets will stay prophets.
Martyrs will stay martyrs.
And fools remain fools.
How does declaring a child a man make him any less a child?
It doesn’t.
But it sells, so it sells.
Eventually,
you get it.
We were the monsters lurking under the bed.
Words Of An Average White Male 