You put on none of those faces
None of that identity substitute
real should the breather be
They are us the bleeder and the breeder
we the grown evidence of the seed
blathering for approval
Faced with brick walls that our knuckles may not penetrate
Graffiti cartoons of ourselves that we may not communicate with
Broomsticks that fly half a meter off the ground then crash
like illusions of power and fantastical abilities
in a world where god gave us two hands
If you let yourself bleed your body will go cold and still
and if your soul reason to exist is to breed
breathless the breather will be in you
We are no more than pining infants, the humble evidence of our parent's seed
It seems recognition and approval has become a vital need
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