Look down at me.
The shapes you see, that could easily be reflections of who you want, If you forget it's just me.
And does it matter, the bleak expression unforgettably cutting across my eyes?
It’s what you’re used to, but at the very least I won’t cry.
Forbidden tears of a face you can't read.
Features that I try to make you see.
I even tried make sense when I cried hot blood.
To you, showing my cryptic passion's pain.
To me, the reasoning seems so plain.
Do you choose what not to see? Like a lonesome fly that buzzed past us?
Do you ignore that vermin, as all that you despise?
We chose to blank it out and instead focus on the fervent action preceding the inevitable reclusion of our freedoms.
Because it wasn’t any of our business.
That’s why you ignore how effortlessly the pest flies to a quiet place we can't be.
We must consider that place of peace is what we’ve been searching for.
Everything that we need, something as small and senseless as that.
Longing for the tranquility of the quick-to-die fly; and never knowing the realm of the long, disconsolate waiting-to-die.
Desperately pondering and sometimes a rare cry ridden with strong confusion.
But that’s none of my business.