Push, push, and further still push them all away.
Edit out all those guilty, wretched faces, one by one,
Carefully, painstakingly, meticulously, scrupulously,
Like that faceless man in an empty room
Who mechanically runs his pen through
All the words accused ofsedition emotion and
Strikes at the still throbbing heart of life.
Push, push, and further still push them all away.
Until the last of love has trickled down
And the bowl lies empty where once it
Brimmed with light, and conversations, and light.
Lick your dry, chapped lips clean of all laughter
As the piercing loneliness of solitude begins to
Settle down into the dull rhythm of your days.
Push, push, and further still push them all away.
So that the guilt of having failed finally surrenders to
The pain of having a thorn gutted in your side
Where it sits still only to turn every so slightly everyday.
And as light begins to flounder in a sea of darkness,
You realise you’re failing still, falling still,
But now, there is no one to let down, except yourself.
Push, push, and further still push them all away.
Until the memories confined by exuberant photoframes
Begin to decay into a state of utter disrepair,
Decrepit like a neglected mansion in the woods,
For there is nothing to nourish them back to strength
Apart from the, ah, cloying sentimentality of nostalgia,
Held ransom by the vague outlines of your umpteen fears.
Push, push, and further still push them all away.
So that the empty walls of your severe room
Occasionally cramp your soul as well
And your feet, when they wander in the direction of comfort,
Made so appealing by the noises drifting downstairs,
Get confused, nay, lost in a maze of insecurities
And come back to where they were.
Push, push, and further still push them all away.
Until your tiny window is stripped bare of all beauty
And the silent accusations lose their teeth but
In doing so become a state of being.
Until your peace is botched with vile, stubborn stains –
But is the only way you can look yourself in the eye –
And your detach-ment is complete.
Edit out all those guilty, wretched faces, one by one,
Carefully, painstakingly, meticulously, scrupulously,
Like that faceless man in an empty room
Who mechanically runs his pen through
All the words accused of
Strikes at the still throbbing heart of life.
Push, push, and further still push them all away.
Until the last of love has trickled down
And the bowl lies empty where once it
Brimmed with light, and conversations, and light.
Lick your dry, chapped lips clean of all laughter
As the piercing loneliness of solitude begins to
Settle down into the dull rhythm of your days.
Push, push, and further still push them all away.
So that the guilt of having failed finally surrenders to
The pain of having a thorn gutted in your side
Where it sits still only to turn every so slightly everyday.
And as light begins to flounder in a sea of darkness,
You realise you’re failing still, falling still,
But now, there is no one to let down, except yourself.
Push, push, and further still push them all away.
Until the memories confined by exuberant photoframes
Begin to decay into a state of utter disrepair,
Decrepit like a neglected mansion in the woods,
For there is nothing to nourish them back to strength
Apart from the, ah, cloying sentimentality of nostalgia,
Held ransom by the vague outlines of your umpteen fears.
Push, push, and further still push them all away.
So that the empty walls of your severe room
Occasionally cramp your soul as well
And your feet, when they wander in the direction of comfort,
Made so appealing by the noises drifting downstairs,
Get confused, nay, lost in a maze of insecurities
And come back to where they were.
Push, push, and further still push them all away.
Until your tiny window is stripped bare of all beauty
And the silent accusations lose their teeth but
In doing so become a state of being.
Until your peace is botched with vile, stubborn stains –
But is the only way you can look yourself in the eye –
And your detach-ment is complete.
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