Grip
Sometimes words strangle you harder than hands
Sometimes the grip of those hands breaks your neck
And you try to steal the air his nose breathes
“Denounce us and no one will believe”
Years later - designing life by the book
Sometimes people tie your hands without touching you.
It’s the invisible hand, the ordinary routine;
A mud flood - trying to swim against the current.
Faces of the evil - replaced - faces of puppets
You cannot slay the puppets.
The puppet master bought them with your rights
With your sweat and jaded nails
Imperfect - thrown away.
It feels better now does it
To be caught in someone’s grip.
Puppets are slain by their puppet laws
People are slain by people
People are puppet masters.
Sometimes words strangle you harder than hands
Sometimes the grip of those hands breaks your neck
And you try to steal the air his nose breathes
“It feels better now, doesn’t it?”
Cut loose ends, the only right is illegal.
Highway
If every person were a highway, most people I know are dead-ends.
I imagine it just like this: driving alone within the wilderness enjoying the sound of my favorite music.
The mood is shattered when the car stops in a crash with an invisible force which doesn’t let you go further, but it does let you see as much as your eyes can catch.
Every person I know is a highway with multiple dead ends (closed boxes where everything rots) - you hit the one that’s closest to your heart.
Most of the time the one who crushes in your walls knows how to get you out.
If it is yourself who crashes, then you’ve got a bonus.
But do you even remember, where does your highway stop and the one dictated begin?
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