Linkin Park

why am I so very sure

that nobody truly cares about

this writhing soul that lies

beneath this soiled skin

lashed by the whips of bereavement?

I try so very hard to matter

yet my advances in courtship of glory

are rebuffed by a wave of

percelain hand in which the cracks

of lifes sorrows are forever etched

into these retinas starved of oxygen.

Ive a wondrous story to tell

of pride and hate and loss and dreams

a monument built by the hands of the guilty

who'd murder and artist for believeing

that the beauty of life and death

are naught but a child of chance

as countless planetoids vanish into dust

leaving us all alone to chase

that story that fled thier lips

and became what they said they want

yet know will bring doom upon them

as their sins will never be compensated

when the blade of recalcitrance

finds its latest flame.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

pain of past and fear of future. No time like the present, eh?

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