They’re permanent I promise,
I’m permanently not proud.
The feeling I felt for frequency,
was wasted where I wasn’t allowed.

We all want what we want,
and we taste tattered treason,
by beating and breaking our skin,
realizing resentment with no reason.

I am an animal,
afraid and alone,
but you and your methods,
hosted a heavenly home.

I might make myself
look like a loser inside,
but the true testimony of me,
might not make it from my mind.

You see the same settings,
and I perceive prominent people,
but I beat myself and burn brightly,
my superstructure, or so called steeple.

© 2010 The Still Air

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