Shadows And Sand

They won't leave me be,they won't let it lie.What do they want,my blood? Alas,I am but stone-there is no blood to give,long since drained.The Buzzards have already had there feed.When I stop breathing do you think they'll tire?-I'm not so sure.Probably hold a seance,so they can still poke me when I'm dead.
The postman is the choice messenger of doom.His pale steed disguised as a bike,black robes replaced with blue and a touch of crimson from previous victories.If you concentrate real hard,you can sometimes see the outline of a sickle by his side.I ought to take out a restraining order on him,mentally torturing me with envelopes filled with writings of hate,of threats and black promises.I'd rather he just come up and put a gun to my head-least it would be quick.If our paths cross,we exchange smiles maybe even a hello,behind his,lies sadistic laughter and I'm sure I've seen him rubbing his hands together as he walks away.Behind my smile lies fear,anger,frustration and fading hope.
After picking up the poison scripts with the tips of my fingers,I'll put them out of sight somewhere,it'll make things seem better-won't it? Yeah,look at 'em another day,maybe won't be so bad then.They might of mellowed some,I fucking doubt it though,knowing my luck they will of matured and got really nasty and started ripping their own way out.They'll of gone from black to an angry red,more threatening-shouting at me.
Why won't they let me be,why do they worry about me so much and concentrate all their efforts on me.I am a fucking nobody-trouble is-I'm a nobody who owes a somebody.Survival of the fittest,there are times that I feel so lame,I don't stand a chance.I can see where no hope could equal rope,I can empathize with others,I really can.
I'll assume the foetus position or just rock back an' forth and wait for some kind of divine intervention-surely we don't make all our own luck,do we? There has to be something greater waiting to step in when we fuck up.Despite everything,I still believe there is a hand out stretched,reaching for me-I just can't see it yet,through all this haze.
When the phone rings,I'm always out,it's like they know I'm here,just not answering,it rings for ages.I even feel guilty sometimes and have to go in another room-so at least I can't see it or hide it under a cushion to muffle the sound,it's haunting at times.But then there's times when I sit there with hands over my ears,saying-please stop,go away-please stop,go away.Eventually they do,but I can hear them saying,"That bastard's not answering his phone".You wouldn't think a ringtone could fill you with so much dread.They try an'trick you and change the numbers around,it's like a firing squad practicing-sometimes they're bound to hit.
I like the nights,it's safer then-no mail,no calls,peace for a few hours.I enjoy it while I can and cram as much in as possible,while free from reality-I'll deal with that tomorrow.On the other hand,I might just keep the door locked and curtains closed and pretend I'm not in this world today.That seems like the best solution sometimes.I always did like sand as a child.
Why can't we go back to bartering,I would willingly do a favour for a favour or a trade for a trade.There is too much of a divide in society today.Sadly most of us are judged by the size of the pot we piss in-me-I don't have one.Makes no odds if you're talented or not,well it seems that way.You could be a genius for all anyone cares,but if it's not written down somewhere,it makes good pipe dream fuel.I have pictures on paper-but 'cause it's not the queens head and the wrong sort of paper,it ain't worth shit.I have a shed load of coins,but 'cause they don't have the queen on 'em and there's a hole in the middle,people won't accept them as payment.If only I had a bag of beans-I'd show 'em then.
You'd think I was fuckin'famous,the amount of people who want to get in touch with me,who want to talk to me.Or am I just infamous? nearly spelt the same.I am but a series of random numbers,I have no face,I have no feelings,I'm a spanner in someones works.
There is light,sometimes at the end of the tunnel,but I think it's just kids playing with a torch,flicking it on and off.Hope-no hope,hope-no hope.The line between fruitfulness and baron can be a thin one and is often blurred and I swear it keeps moving when I'm not looking.
I find music a great help in the fight against societies demands.I could have a hundred vikings marching with me at any given time on any given day,or drinking mead with Odin the next,whilst planning battle.Failing that-I can just freak out to some awesome metal,letting reality become but a faded memory.On the flip side,if I'm not careful,there could be a bottle of Russias finest sitting on the table and the wrong song in my ears,bringing me down.But for some insane reason,I can't explain-it feels kinda right at the time.Ain't life weird-or is it just me?
If I sound angry at times,it's because I am and if I sound sad at times,it's because I am.Angry at myself for being in a mess,angry at society for aiding and abetting me.Sad at what seems like a never ending struggle and sad at the state of society where they've made it so hard not to comply.
Don't get me wrong,I'll put my hand up and take most of the blame for where I am now.But somebody kept offering it to me-it's almost entrapment.They found my weak spots and got to work on them.Bags of sweets and puppy dogs-the bastards.Out of the belly of a horse-surprise!! Never saw it coming,never stood a chance......

Not The End