When I will I look at my own hands and see a woman’s hands
When will I look at the world and see myself reflected in it
When will the swelling go down
The swelling of pain inflammatory
The swelling of hearts corroded
Gotta play by their rules
Rough and dirty
A thin line separates us from the monsters we hunt
Narrative poetic justice
Mimics the mirrored scenery
But it tells a story not many often hear
Behind the scenes at the benefit flats are flying
Small victories seem like puppets dangling from a string
Rattlesnakes don’t commit suicide
Don’t send a postcard from Des Moines
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Small Victories
Are Dangling
From Puppet Strings
All that you need
Is resting
Just beneath your feet
Play by their rules
Lick bleeding wounds
They wont take that from me
Lost In the Sea
Your anchor
Mimics mirrored scenery