Whether we lie to ourselves or to others
To find fault or fulfill our desire
The snow drifts over the open grave
Dug by the nitpicking and passive aggresion of loving Father
Explaining, "well, he done it, now. Couldn't finish a fucking thing."
He buries his son, but if no one was watching...
He'd probably watch T.V. and get to it, one of these days...
Like his wife certainly would, regardless if the rotting corpse lied next to her.
She lacks that much strength and initiative.
"He's right," pops probably said at some point
Without validation to the deaf ear gone cold
From the lies and the blame told moments ago
In trying to shame son for semblance of control
Like he's always done... round dinner table or therapist
In an alpha and omega twist of dagger in voodoo doll
And it's without validation the body fails without
Into grave, into dirt, unthanked for a million invisible deeds
Apparently unfinished, because they weren't recognized pleasing.
So the boy ran the shortest road out of here and off the planet
Passing Lord Charon and leaving the moon behind, traveling lands
Beyond space and time... out past the land of Nod and into the really unreal
Where secrets are the currency of trust.
Where love is real compassion, instead of a dagger.
Where people are pleasant because they knew friendship,
Where everyone is less concerned with appearances, or pride.
I have been there in the really unreal. It is a place magical and full of life.
It speaks quieter than small boy and companionable cat,
But surrounds everyone as a matter of fact.
A place where demons and angels walk in same body.
A place that has memory of ancient lords and ladies.
A place in your mind accessible anytime, if you're worthy.
For it is a place out of space and time, rooted in reality as the very bones it's built from.
It's name? History
And it's that history the therapist deals with
All the criticism and nit-picking layered up over the years
All the blame and passive-aggression spoke in our ears
And the father says,"Yes, I did" like he'd gotten away with it.
Ain't that the cherry in cherry pie.
To find fault or fulfill our desire
The snow drifts over the open grave
Dug by the nitpicking and passive aggresion of loving Father
Explaining, "well, he done it, now. Couldn't finish a fucking thing."
He buries his son, but if no one was watching...
He'd probably watch T.V. and get to it, one of these days...
Like his wife certainly would, regardless if the rotting corpse lied next to her.
She lacks that much strength and initiative.
"He's right," pops probably said at some point
Without validation to the deaf ear gone cold
From the lies and the blame told moments ago
In trying to shame son for semblance of control
Like he's always done... round dinner table or therapist
In an alpha and omega twist of dagger in voodoo doll
And it's without validation the body fails without
Into grave, into dirt, unthanked for a million invisible deeds
Apparently unfinished, because they weren't recognized pleasing.
So the boy ran the shortest road out of here and off the planet
Passing Lord Charon and leaving the moon behind, traveling lands
Beyond space and time... out past the land of Nod and into the really unreal
Where secrets are the currency of trust.
Where love is real compassion, instead of a dagger.
Where people are pleasant because they knew friendship,
Where everyone is less concerned with appearances, or pride.
I have been there in the really unreal. It is a place magical and full of life.
It speaks quieter than small boy and companionable cat,
But surrounds everyone as a matter of fact.
A place where demons and angels walk in same body.
A place that has memory of ancient lords and ladies.
A place in your mind accessible anytime, if you're worthy.
For it is a place out of space and time, rooted in reality as the very bones it's built from.
It's name? History
And it's that history the therapist deals with
All the criticism and nit-picking layered up over the years
All the blame and passive-aggression spoke in our ears
And the father says,"Yes, I did" like he'd gotten away with it.
Ain't that the cherry in cherry pie.
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