:: Boy In Corner ::

:: Wednesday, October 22, 2003 ::

My eyes grow glassy as new wounds
Open up new scars,
Puffy scar tissue being torn open again,
Fleshy chasms running down my heart.

I leave myself open,
Vulnerable for an attack,
My trust in emotion
Let down by bad timing.
I close my eyes and fall forward,
And I hit the floor.

Of course, I'm not crying;
My eyes are red from the smoke.
Really, I'm not.

Old malfunctions of that machine in my chest
Were welded shut, repaired,
Yet the pains ring familiar as the same old
Tragedies hammer it to the ground.
Metal tears from metal, and
The bloody grease of my soul spills out through my eyes.

I understand the time's not right, but why is my heart now
Masked by blight, and I still can't stand up and fight,
Because I care too much.
I guess I did too good of a job trying to make you mine,
And I know timing is everything, but I won't whine,
But it just hurts to know that you told me to not hold back,
And now you decide you want to be just friends.

I'm not angry, or upset.
So when you ask me if I've been crying,
Of course, I'm not crying;
My eyes are red from the smoke.

Really, I'm not.

:: Rick Kitagawa 1:24 AM [+] ::
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