I have a mind of my own, it Is the warmest of homes. I'm not a sheep, nor wolf, But a Shepard living quietly alone. A house atop the hill, downward a valley where all mindless sheep shall roam
The dirt beneath my fingernails has settled in stoic silence, the epitome of violence long lost to the length of my living time
Sickness and guilt has long since taken away any peers eligible of intelligent conversation, lonely stations on the radio, no notes of song but just mere sounds of home
Fictitious tales of others worthy of my breath, I know I bleed the hints of arrogance, but it's all that I have left.
Left, like the day you left me here, to drown in self pity in the form of tears. Fears, like those we carry, secret from the world, for they are who we truly marry. Marriage with such boastful beasts, we havent choice but to believe that they are who we are and what we can never acend above.
But we can, oh we can, the wings have been upon our backs from the beginning. A thinning herd of mindless sheep, oh whom will never in their wings.
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