Angry Songs

The aperture of my heart is inversely constant to the damage in my life. Infected ears try to hear. Through all that pus a song emerges. To tell me I was wrong.

But even if I were to listen what could I learn. From their lopsided sagas of snowmen left to the mercy of the weather.

Just collect those coal eyes from their puddles and hope they'll fit someone else. In all their blindness.

Everyone thinks they are the only one. The last of their kind. Everyone has to believe they are more alone. More misunderstood.

Since there is no other way they could be so alone.

It has to be every one else. Because it can't be them.

We're all perfect until we encounter each other. We're so alive until someone shows us how dead we've been.

And the angry songs still play on as if I haven't changed at all.

I never do change.

Only what I see.

And hear does.

So many cameras without a lens. Taking my picture.

Imaging they know what it might look like could I be captured.