Love will save you when the ocean splits itself in two
Love will save you when the cold wind blows right through you
Love will save you when the poison eats the precious air
And love will save you from the snake that crawls around down there
But it won't save me
Love will save you from the evil and the greed of ignorant men
And love will save you from the guilt you feel when you
betray your only friend
Love will save you from yourself when you lose control [ Find more Lyrics on www.mp3lyrics.org/MM2d ]
And love will save you from all the lies your lover ever told you
But it won't save me
Love will save you from the truth when you think you're free
Love will save you from the cold light of boring reality
Love will save you from the corruption of your lazy-minded soul
And love will save you from your selfish and distorted goals
But it won't save me
Love will save you from the black night and the lightning and the ghost
Love will save you from your misery, then tie you to the bloody post
Love will save you from the hands that pull you down beneath the sea
Love may save all you people, but it will never, never save me
No it won't save me Lyrics: Love Will Save you, Swans
There was no purity
there was no sky
nor sun
there was no summer
of hope
or joy-overflowing
unbelievably real
There was no touch
that gave wind to lungs
no perfect harmony of souls
no safety
nor trust
There was no love so beautiful
could overpower the ruiner
die it must
as always is
denied
strangers we are
to what we were
one of us could not fight alone
the other gave up and gone
no mercy
no flowers
no promises fulfilled
so it be
love
a fractured dead thing
stillborn beloved nurtured
and sacred
but vulnerably exposed
turned rotten like hatred
not allowed
love
so it be
quite always and forever
murdered
betrayed.
Unfortunately the lyrics to "The Cloud Song" have been misspelled. I am annoyed by this, but am having a hard time finding another version/widget/whatnot that spells the damn words correctly! Also, I've been away. I've had a long month. Creativity shall resurface soon.
As I cry another tear in this struggle of Pain
Another hurdle to clear is it all the same
Is the conquest of pain my only Aim?
The Pain has got to Stop, it's eating into me,
My apathy upholds this misery,
this hatred for myself will Destroy me
If i don't give it the love it needs
Have you ever realized you must love Yourself
if you don't than can you love anybody else?
Nobody can reach you through your personal hell
You'll just eat yourself away in your tortured shell.
SWANS: «Trust Me» Because I love you
I give you this
Don't be afraid of this
You can trust me now
Though we will deceive ourselves
You can trust me now
You can trust me now
Don't be afraid of this
It's not unusual
It's not unusual
Because I love you
You can trust me now
You will never know
You will never know
You can not trust me now
Don't be afraid of this
You can trust me now
It's not unusual
You can not trust me now
You will never know
It's not unusual
It's not unusual
She Cannot say it the nag of conscience spits out its factualism blatantly before her its ugliness its haunt the nag the voice the "moral" voice she does not speak with it she cannot say a coward yes irresponsible yes inventing devastating situations that deepen her edge and "Leave her alone!" Oh but she knows the truth yet she cannot deliver it cannot tell it locks it in the deception box pretends its non-existence or puts it away as if it were old junk to be decided upon....later....later....procrastination invades her who lets it in? she does she does the nag the voice the "moral" voice is there it does not force itself out of her but waits silently for her to validate to issue forth the sound honesty in all humility humbly loyally hurting...selfless yet she cannot say it threatens her sanity fragile inconsistent stability will crumble let it be said "Am I better off a coward?" ultimatums manifestations a coward or nervous prostration setting aflame the torch that scorches internally and sickens her with its persistence its desire for an unwholesome host to perpetuate lies disloyalties the chrysanthemums let them die she did loyalty she beneath wishes to be able yet she cannot say the telling the truth "When did perfidy become her?" she is this person that she is not and winces the blackened deceitful cells inside her rot cut them out with a thing anything an extractor a sharp wakizashi drive out the failure exposed guts at last the truth she cannot say let it spill out that septic swamp infecting the village the mind of a saint betrayed see now? but still a coward to be dead as the truth made known set free given to Eros tainting it Erebos "You are pure" "I am not pure" she cannot say her honest conscience she cannot say her intellect commits debacle as intellect does to all even if only once to all the great cliche abomination LIAR to incinerate with those she loathes for the very same reason they incinerate allied in fire she is what she is not she sees the truth like spit does not look away the details its substance clearly reveal the message to know what is virtue but voluntarily disable the ability to reveal she did stifle disclosure looks away feigns the sociopath she cannot say only that "It will kill her one day"
SWANS: «Trust Me»
Because I love you
I give you this
Don't be afraid of this
You can trust me now
Though we will deceive ourselves
You can trust me now
You can trust me now
Don't be afraid of this
It's not unusual
It's not unusual
Because I love you
You can trust me now
You will never know
You will never know
You can not trust me now
Don't be afraid of this
You can trust me now
It's not unusual
You can not trust me now
You will never know
It's not unusual
It's not unusual
And perhaps it was an anomaly, the torrents of grasshoppers, one after the other through a crack in the backyard fence, flooding your insect catcher-the prize of your childhood. Beyond the fence, the marsh, and the surreal parade of grasshoppers. They were your first true friends. As many the catcher could hold was the claustrophobic fate of the grasshoppers, but you were young and ignorant, you did not want to be alone in your room at night and the constant flicker of insect legs against plastic reminded you that there was life:time did not stop when you were alone. By morning they were gone. Mother and father said that the grasshoppers had to go home. You knew they had let them go. You stared at the crispy exoskeleton, all that remained inside the plastic: a grasshopper had molted while you slept. A strange loneliness passed through you. The remains of a friend, quite meaningless once the life has ceased. This did not deter you from collecting grasshoppers: it became your ritual. Your first real bond, separate from the nexus of daughter, mother, and father, was with the continuous flow of orthopteran insects. The grasshopper: advocate of intuition. The grasshopper totem: never silence your inner musings. The grasshopper chooses the innovator, " forward thinkers that progress in life by unorthodox methods." When you accidentally dropped the bug catcher onto the pavement of the driveway it cracked and broke. Your first little devastation: it was never replaced. The bond, however, did not break, and you would be amongst grasshoppers come the first blaze of summer and every summer to come. Such an anomaly, how they hopped, one after the other, through the crack in the fence. Their parade was endless.
You were the first, the novelty, the bliss of an only child, first daughter, first granddaughter. You were fortunate enough to see the love between your mother and father glow, a utopia of affection they displayed before you with long kisses and caresses. Unbeknownst, that love would turn bitter as human complications surfaced, reared their ugly nightmares and sullied the insulation of the perfect landscape of innocence. You remember that gift, the fantasy of immortal love, all the skeletons dormant in the closet burst out years later, a cyclone slap of ugly reality and circumstance. The human condition. Oh! but remember the graveyard? Your father was caretaker of the graveyard. Daddy's little girl accompanied him to play, to observe, to dash about tombstones and the ancient sinking stones engraved with bizarre tales of death adjacent to the railroad tracks. The stone of an infant. Mortality came early. Too early. Was it possible to die before living? Yet play and run and ecstatic glee of being among the cats that inhabited the caretaker's shed. Their names now distant, aphasic, the tongue loses its sharpness when time piles a million other names, stifling and overcrowding the memory with what becomes more significant as time passes. But there were cats, such joy they gave you as a child, the novelty, the first. The master of the graveyard, old Mr. Merwin, occupied a large lavish home with his aged wife. The wallpaper, floral, lavender, your favorite color, and the old woman a shock of white hair and wisdom. Father maintained their home and property as well. The great white house on the hill you rolled down, over tufts of fresh clover and busy bees, oblivious, disrupting their feast, again and again, laughter and light, the sun, your eyes, ripe with life, on the lawn of the Merwin estate. They were always kind. The Merwins. The rosebush, pinkish-white petals, fresh and aromatic, stood for years on the Merwin family plot. The old woman was the last of the Merwin line. The rosebush waited patiently for her to be put to rest and then withered itself into the ground: the death of a family and the rosebush faithfully gone with the last. Remember the swinging on the fourth of July. The fireworks visible, ebullient and bursting over the marshes. It was well past dark, late evening, but mother and father allowed you the privilege to remain outdoors past bedtime. And as the colors erupted brilliantly in the sky, you pumped your legs harder and harder, higher and higher, the ecstasy of mini-explosions and the soft whipping of the breeze against your face, immortality and youth, the luxurious privacy of the only child accompanying you as you rose through the night air. To soar through the air as if over the marshes and the trees themselves, to have no fear, to be untainted from the dirty mouths of the older children that would harass you in the new neighborhood, later. How fantastic was the silent electric pleasure pulsating throughout your limbs: the joy and the peace of the simplicity of the moment.
You did not resent the birth of your brother and sister. There was no jealousy. They were an interesting phenomena to you having been the solitary first, the novelty, the little princess. I loved and tormented them, I perfected the art of the brat, but with a curious detachment and disconnection that would only intensify when I was put amongst other children. Nursery school. I hated school the moment I was forced to attend. The presence of other children made me uncomfortable; my perceptions were quite mature for my age and I found it hard to relate to "the others." This is when the blackness became more acute. My world was disrupted by teachers, and pestering assignments and horrid group participation. I felt like a black spot of ink on a backdrop of white. The disconnection and lack of "belonging" rang in my head like a migraine and I just wanted to carry on with my freedom, but instead I was pushed into a mass of oozing noses and silly ideas about what I was supposed to know. The hollow and aphotic voice took over my sub-conscious. A constant nag everyday, "something is wrong," "something is wrong," perpetually created a shadow that infiltrated my perception. I rarely smiled. I hated the children. They were wicked and cruel. They blotted out the golden age and made everything that was beautiful to me seem foolish and dead. The anxieties, the highs and devastating lows, hyper-elation and thoughts of death. Did every child feel this way? Was every child as impulsive and moody and in tune with what was wrong with the world? Did every child threaten suicide at age five and keep a knife under his or her pillow? Persistent and violent nightmares. Almost kidnapped when I moved to the new neighborhood. A man following me as I walked home alone. The perverse men that had exposed themselves to me, stared at me, invaded my sacred innocence. I was a constant hall-flower in elementary school. I was almost expelled. I couldn't sit still. I was bored to tears. The human condition had pervaded me! Until next time...
-OSUN
I have a brain. A body (of sorts). Two arms. Two hands (one for each arm). I write. I write. I think. A lot. I read. A hell of a lot. I make stunning graphic designs. Music: always a necessity. Sanity: not at liberty to say.
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