suppression repression
unwind my expression
and twist me into your fantasy wife
perfect love in a glowing white life
the smooth metal sides on the blade of the knife
love like the dream, it could come true
believe it and see it, ii can become you
ii’m a beautiful thing
a precious song
you can sing to yourself when ii’m playing it wrong
passion unfolds through the tips of my fingers
the moment is fleeting but the feeling lingers
and when ii am away from myself
you can find me wherever you want me to be
and explain to me how ii become what you see
it’s perfect and precious, but what does it mean?
are there costumes and set lights behind the scene?
who wrote the plot and the script of our lives?
who defined love? who made this decision?
who scripted our feelings and labeled our visions?
should we eliminate the parts of ourselves that don’t fit perfectly into the plot
the romance that thrives whether we do or not?
do we twist ourselves to become the ideal
or does fantasy fall at the sword of the real?
there must be some place in this world for us
and there has to be something inside you that understands
that ii am standing beside you
but ii do not exist merely to act out this dream
and you tell me you love me
but words are like steam
that will fly into the sky in the wind and disappear in the rain
we talk about fear and we laugh at our pain
but we can’t really show it when we are searching to know it.
everything falls around our hands as we touch each other’s skin
weaving and tingling our way in
closing our eyes for the ride, being naked together
there’s nothing to hide
but are our bodies strong enough to pull out what’s inside?
your eyes are like streams
deep and alive
and in the light ii can see my reflection
the only mirror in the world that gives me a sense of perfection
but ii know there is more that won’t fit in your eyes
it’s too big and too wild for spheres of that size.
ii want to fit your vision
but ii can not kill
the side of myself with the stronger will.
she’s been screaming since long before your eyes could see her
in frequencies deeper than streams can contain.
you want to love me but you can’t even see me without being drowned in the pain.
so where do we go from here?
what can ii say that ii’d want you to hear?
how long can ii show you what you love to see?
how physical can this dream ever be?
the places ii could show you do not deserve to be seen by your eyes
but if ii stay here away from my home
ii will live the rest of our love seeing my reflection
obscured by perfection
drowning in streams
limited by the confines of your dreams.
do we twist ourselves to become the ideal
or does fantasy fall at the sword of the real?
_
~ Diary 2001
