Lucy pt. IV: Routine

Step by step, heavy breath by heavy breath
she enters once again the torture field
Already placed, a wooden chair
is ready for her arrival
Smiling at her trembling sight,
naked of any emotion shield.

Silently striding, she reached for it and sat
Silently, in obedience.
Of the things about to happen, she was always ahead
and the feelings she wanted to be rid of

"So don't you know you're playing with fire"
she heard a voice right behind
and thought about the damage done over the years
and felt tired
But still the razor slipped out of the nearest pocket on the sly

Then bruises were made, as so many times before
the grass before her eyes being painted by the drips
as dewdrops turned to a darker red tone and skin became sore
The memories washed away with the biting of lower lips
as if such ammount of pain held, somehow
her key to times of bliss

But yet, it was almost over
and a voice still mumbled from far away
"undone can't be what you keep on doing today"
And she wondered again, after years so much older
if more scars to such enormous collection would still do her harm
But an answer never came

So step by step, bloody hand by bloody hand
it was then the familiar time to leave
The stained sleeves she'd always keep by her side
as mementos of a prison so old but so real
she hopes she'll ever be free of
A blessed time for fresh air to smile upon a face
that will no longer have to hide

Sad news no more on the field,
not until returning time.

Myopia

In a day when all the candles over your cake
will be blown to ashes
and you'll be staring at the soul of the party
beyond the ginger ales and cocktails.
The loved ones will be there over the years,
in your room or in your mind
and the ones missed the most will roll you over, kindly
a carpet of dry tears
Say what you have to say, don't spare your words
at least when preaching to yourself

I'd like it so much better if my hands were untied
if temptation and despair did not keep on blackmailing
My head heavy of darkened thoughts working on the sly
and the vultures keep on self-revealing
Until I get enough of it all

Take out my inspirational shotgun
and blow far away them all,
the trashbags disguised as old threatening ladies
on my way
about to fall.

What is it in the way I feel
that keeps me up at night?

(It's only water. You've spilled only water. Hold on to the last bits of self-protection.)