“Rock my dear baby, never do stop
For when you rest still, your body will drop
Far to the ground waiting angry below
And you will lay broken, die lonely, die slow”
What cradel do we rest in which offers such fear that inevitable fate will draw closer, my dear? Do we feign safe repast in a basket we wove in our young forming minds so many long years ago? Do we hope to keep playing the role we have claimed to fool all the people with our silly game? We call it an ego, we blame the abuse, but what stops our fall when we’re faced with the truth?
The stong chin that you set, the strong back you stretch is now growing weary and surely can’t last. The silvery smile you flash when they ask about the cruel end and the true, final death: is this real inside you, are you made of stone? Or merely a person scared of being alone?
How can we decide which personality is true, which to use, and how do we now have so may which we constantly must choose? Do you even remember the person you are or does the new you not look back that far? As for me, I’m not certain, but some things I’ve learned: I bleed when I’m cut and I blister when burned. I’d probabally cry if I allowed my poor eyes and I know I’ll be trembling on the day death arrives. I don’t feel joy being lonely as I am every day and I only feel ugly for the words I might say. I judge others so strictly that I might spare myself, for if I were to be truthful I’d feel left out. I hate all this darkness just as much as I should then I run to it freely, never leave if I could. I guess this is honest, but then who could tell? And when the bough broke, my lithe body then fell.