Burnt Love

This is an abstract song that I wrote about four or five years ago. At the time that I wrote it a lot of people around me were suffering from the pain of infidelity/betrayal ~ one person of which that I loved very much in particular. However, the song also has personal significance to me for a very different reason. The imagery described is metaphorical and symbolic; not literal in meaning.

Do you think I'm a fiddle?-
-Stop playing my strings!
Do you think I'm an iceberg?-
-And I'll just melt away?

No way.
No way.
No way.
No wayayayay.

Today.
I'm flooding your house down.
With all the memories I'd bottled up inside.
Today.
I'm burning your house down.
With all the ashes from the burning pain you caused to me.

Don't play with me; don't play with me; it's wrong.
Gone from you gone from you; I'm strong.

Cos.
I'm not the violin you play behind my back.
Cos.
I'm not the violin that's crying for you back.
Cos.
I'm not the violin that plays sweet melodies.
I'm a drum. Drum. Drum. Drum.
And, you can't hit on me!

Yesterday was a bad day, I cried.
Yesterday was a bad day, I died inside.

But, tomorrow when your home is gone,
I'll take away your fridge,
And with it your hearts and guts,
As you did from my skin,
And play the thought.
And play the thought.
I try.
That I am stronger - stronger than your lies.

Today.
I'm flooding your house down.
With all the memories I'd bottled up inside.
Today.
I'm burning your house down.
With all the ashes from the burning pain you caused to me.

Don't play with me; don't play with me; it's wrong.
Gone from you gone from you; I'm strong.

Cos.
I'm not the violin you play behind my back.
Cos.
I'm not the violin that's crying for you back.
Cos.
I'm not the violin that plays sweet melodies.
I'm a drum. Drum. Drum. Drum.
And, you can't hit on me!

Do you think I'm a statue?-
-With no emotion?!
Do you think I'm a doormat?-
-That you can stand on and forget?!

No way.
No way.
No way.
No wayayayay.

Princess Petite vs The World

This poem is about eating disorders and distorted thinking and it is about a sickness that society has.
In this poem a woman is sick and society encourages her illness rather than supporting  and nourishing her. Thus, society is, in a strange way, sicker than she is.

An animalistic moan raptured from her tunnel of bony ribs,

As she wound round the pink binds,

“It’s not torture,” she reasoned in sharp, petite breaths. “It’s culture.”

And so, she bound her waist like women used to bind their feet.

“To be straight, to be thin, to be white, and to be clean is perfect”.

It’s just a figment of western culture’s imagination that perfection does not exist.

Her bones arch in mathematical angles that must satisfy pi.

Those western whales of anger would crush her pretty space out of jealousy that they could not have one to call their own.

“They are not as valuable as me”, she reasoned in private. “They are jealous, ugly beings who disgust me”.

She wanted to vomit the vile experience of meeting such insidious creatures out of her system. But instead, she muttered spectacular words to the world; because princesses don’t speak of the putrid.

She picked up a bag of chips and licked them with passive aggressive glee.

To prove that there is no problem here; to prove that she is naturally perfect; to cover up years of starvation and pain; to say “fuck you” to the bullies who claim that perfection doesn’t exist.

Her allies of vapid admirers crow to her disordered thinkings in confirmation.

“You’re so pretty; you’re so perfect; don’t listen to the naysayers; thin is in.”

They flocked around like frenzied vultures, fanning the dying women’s dreams.

Hungry to be good and perfect too.

For what would a vulture care about a little extra skin and bones to devour?

Dark

This is a metaphorical song about being bullied.

Mama
The monsters dragged me here,
My white shirt is stained with tears,
And blood drizzled from the point,
Where vampires sucked me out of joint.
I pulled out a knife from my back blades.

Mama
The monsters dragged me here,
Gripped me with the claws of fear,
A werewolf bit me on the head,
... Said she, “You talk and you’ll be dead”.
I nodded my head obediently and listened.

But, I’m not afraid of the dark,
Where the monsters hide like spiders,
They’re afraid that I know that they’re in there.
They’re afraid that I know that they’re in there.

Mama
The monsters dragged me here,
So that they could point and leer,
So that they could bring me down,
So that I could be their clown.
I changed slowly into the unrecognisable.
Mama
The monsters dragged me here,
They asked that I adhere,
To their nasty, twisted rules,
Where we would hunt for happy fools.
Much that was good in me wallowed in guilt.

But, I’m not afraid of the dark,
Where the monsters hide like spiders,
They’re afraid that I know that they’re in there.
They’re afraid that I know that they’re in there.

Of the gossips and the spies; of the rumours and the lies.

Mama,
An angel brought me out,
When I was full of doubt,
She cut my shackles free,
Held my hand; said she: “Come with me!”
I was surprised to find that angel was the better side of me.
The better side of me.