In the course of events,
when there’s cause and there is intent,
add a camera to the mix
and now something must be done
in the face of evidence
that no, we’re not free at all.
We’re told to get in line,
and we’re told not to speak.
When I dare to share my mind,
do you find me threatening?
A part of you is part of me.
Even though you makes me want to scream,
know that I would make amends
and work from that on which we both agree.
You’re the clear and present threat
‘cause you choose to have and use a gun.
I promise that I won’t resist;
I’m not fighting; didn’t try to run.
What I find self evident
is that I’m not really free at all.
I’m told to get in line,
and I’m told not to breathe.
When and if I speak my mind,
you try to censor me.
A part of you is part of me.
Even though you makes me want to scream,
know that I would make amends
and work from that on which we both agree.
Mother. Father. Please…
help me. I can’t. Breathe…
So many things that now I’ll never do.
I tried my best but, clearly, what’s the use?
Am I a victim to circumstance
or the straw that breaks the camel’s back?
Who could have thought it’d come to this
and who knows what can and must be done?
In the face of evidence
are we, really, free at all when
we’re told to get in line, and
we’re told not to speak.
If we don’t toe your line
you treat us like the enemy!
A part of you is part of me.
Even though you makes me want to scream,
know that I would make amends
and work from that on which we both agree.
Eye for eye, a pound of flesh
leaves us broken, blind and in belief
that each of us is ‘lesser than’
and in need of a good beating.
I can’t help myself
everything you say don’t make no sense to me.
I can’t rightly tell
if you are or aren’t my enemy.
All your stories, truth be told, are growing old, di’n’tcha know? You’ve told them all million times to me.
Bold opinions from above demand your faith and your guns. On your knees, do you still think you’re free?
I’m not being a part of this
doesn’t mean that you’re right, so
don’t label me a malcontent
doing this out of spite.
You may hope for a hastened death
to ensure that you’re saved,
but, if you’re waiting to live again,
you’ll have a hell of a wait.
You’ve spent a lifetime searching for the proof
that you’ve professed, now confess, there’s no truth…
I can’t help myself
everything you say, makes me want to scream.
Just ‘cause you can’t tell
don’t mean I didn’t try to keep my peace.
All that’s you is now exposed, open to a world that grows much colder with each lie that comes to light.
Sparks come from a lonely stone; slowly growing whispered tomes; tones moaned softly become deafening.
My not being part of this
doesn’t mean that it’s right.
You’re the source of your discontent
with noone else to blame.
And you might chose a slower death,
that still leads to a grave
but, if you’re praying to be born again,
you’ll have one hell of a wait.
facing upstream 