Your Reflecting Light
Alone in the dark, light so far away
Running on fumes, persisting out of spite
Nobody expects me to make it, neither do I
Blinded in the hollows, blinded by reflected light.
Indistinct is the source of this harsh and painful light.
Unknown is this antangonist and why is revels in my suffering.
Why does it torture me so, what does it stand to gain?
As the source approches it features come into focus, a definition snaps into place.
Why does it smile so, smile wearing my face?
Finely crafted, pieces tightly fitting together
reluctantly giving to repetitious action
weaknesses hammered out as beads of sweat form
brow furrowed, intense focus
the mettle squeaks in protest, but slowly yields to my unrelenting assault
Compacting, hardening, concentrating, focusing
All the strength I pour into it, all the effort it begins to reflect
A perfect sphere of obsidian, an exquisitely wrought setting in my chest
A place for my heart remains open, ready for when it is finished,
Still a man, still made of tin,
Heart crafted by hand, from without, for within.
When I'm hurting emotionally I write. Morose, and sad I externalize my emotions. Words of pain, written in blood, punctuated by tears. Figuratively... Most of the time.
Alone in the dark, light so far away
Running on fumes, persisting out of spite
Nobody expects me to make it, neither do I
Blinded in the hollows, blinded by reflected light.
Indistinct is the source of this harsh and painful light.
Unknown is this antangonist and why is revels in my suffering.
Why does it torture me so, what does it stand to gain?
As the source approches it features come into focus, a definition snaps into place.
Why does it smile so, smile wearing my face?
Finely crafted, pieces tightly fitting together
reluctantly giving to repetitious action
weaknesses hammered out as beads of sweat form
brow furrowed, intense focus
the mettle squeaks in protest, but slowly yields to my unrelenting assault
Compacting, hardening, concentrating, focusing
All the strength I pour into it, all the effort it begins to reflect
A perfect sphere of obsidian, an exquisitely wrought setting in my chest
A place for my heart remains open, ready for when it is finished,
Still a man, still made of tin,
Heart crafted by hand, from without, for within.
When I'm hurting emotionally I write. Morose, and sad I externalize my emotions. Words of pain, written in blood, punctuated by tears. Figuratively... Most of the time.