"awaiting doom"

I was born into a life that did all but kill me, grinding me down,
had I been wise, I'd have flown then, from my flesh, as a babe,
but then I wander around THIS time and ponder, about this town,
feeling people's hate rifling thru their skin, I wonder what I am to create.


I've had dreams and silly notions, of being something more than I am.
Of course I won't see the odd ones, formed from a grey, whispy cloud,
I can't tread there and still be in the land of reality, not as I sit damned.
The open world is closed to me in part, mainly because I am too proud.


I won't sell myself short to make a buck, I won't lie and walk upon.
I won't demand I get such rivaled fate, request that I'm reborn.
All I sit and do is ponder, kill time, and talk and work on a song.
That song is my lifehood, not music, but reason, a reason to mourn.


When I die, I wonder, will that song continue, will I even rush and scatter,
will my bones lay brittle and crush, down under the weight of loss.
I wonder then, will anybody miss me, the real me, the one who banters.
The dark soul waiting for the world to overturn, overthrowing its boss.


I don't want death, I just want something else for this fucking place.
I'm no Jesus, I'm the furthest thing from an everlasting gawd damn saint.
But what can a lowly worker ant, a sheep and drone do to quench the tide?
What ever can a dreamer with a bleeding heart filled with salt do? Fight?


I try not to watch TV since the images bother me, well, stopped bothering me.
I was raised in an era where we expect gore and blood, to understand? No. For fun.
We don't care about the people, the fodder being trodden by cruel toes, feet.
We don't even care why they died anymore. They're just stats and numbers. They are done.


How many times do we need to see a mother shoot a raping father? A father shoot himself?
How many days do we need to gossip and worry whether or not someone's cock is being sucked?
Is it really important to us what other people go thru, the pain that they live?
					 Or is it an excuse...
Are we collecting this data, these movies, the crime and worry,
						because collectively our minds are fucked?


I wish I knew how much was enough, or how little a person needed to survive,
					 so I could get that and flee.
I would live in the woods then, growing my own food and making my own clothes.
					 I'd be so nearly free.
But how much is just enough? How long will I have to live out there,
				 will I have water for all my life?
Will my crops grow? Will the animals bless me with their flesh,
				 when I have to eat more than rice?


I get the perfect world in my head for me, and then everything takes a swing,
								 battering it, smashed.
Something's got to ruin my humble galaxy, since of course order cannot be, it's too easy...
That someone would want to live below their means,
					that they don't want to have jewels? *laugh*
No one accepts that, since we are nothing but cogs in a broken machine, working our meat.


So, we fly to other worlds, we create everything in our head. We're alive, lost, and glad.
Some use drugs, some beat themselves, some never eat or sleep, and some just think.
They ponder everything and create fake buildings inside fake towns,
							where life is ultimately ran.
In those dreams they live the life they yearn to, they love and own the key.
				They slowly sink...


Dream worlds pull souls in and never them let go, because real life is too hard,
								 it's too cruel.
Why should we want to live a life where we are raped, abused, beaten,
								teased, told fucking lies?
It makes no sense to stay dying inside, a little more every single day,
							you have to grab something new.
In a dream, in a moment of dillusion, in a fond memory, 
						in all those things that don't make you die


In my mind I am a captain, a king, a ruler over so much more than silly worries,
								 and abstract fear.
I'd bring that world to the masses if only it were so. To show them to dream,
							 to sleep, to let go.
Little things thrill my shredded heart, but if I could wrap this world into a machine,
						 lacking cog or gear.
No strings attached, just an escape, like a drug, but for the mind to build upon,
					 I wouldn't say no.


Another reality sits behind a scheme, a ritual that science could harness,
				 since people lost magic.
But would that also be corrupted, tainted, sold and shot into the eyes,
			 and nerves or dropped like acid?
Yes...such a grand thing would be stolen, would be bidded off and bartered. The escape tragic.
Leaving from one world with solid walls and support, 
				jumping to another with iron that breaks like plastic.


So, since I can't trust the world and share my ideas, share my path to a better place,
						 since people hate,
I won't, and will just sit further inside myself, flying around in circles,
					 like a demon bleeding the moon.
I can't trust but a few people in this life it seems. I do what I can,
				 but still shall await that blissful date.
The day the Earth will stand still, shook loose of drive. 
		When everyone's eyes open, hearts rise, minds turn to look unto Doom.