lessons we write are just conventions,
and as we grow we see that there's too much more than that.
the blood flows from my nose. to justify the hits that i received.
what will they think of me now that i'm not scared?
there's so many pieces they left out
and i'm proud that i can put it together on my own.
i'm not scared.
dream alone. i say, "for your own, here is myself."
to love and become. but i don't exist at all.
though i try, still in vain.
all for myself.
still i try to get the message.
why still try when no one's listening.
i've got to have it for my own. where are you going.
where have you been.
blood binds us yet pushes us so far apart. a collection of characteristics, a shared name. a photobook burial of borrowed memories -
a glorious misrepresentation of what we never were. home videos hang hollow in a house so stale with age.
tradition ties the knot on strings attached to this notion of family.
