Food from Thought

It seems like joy’s become a product,
Post the posters with the edict:
Once I’ve finished all my tasks,
And once I’ve done just what they ask,
Then I’ll have my time for me,
And Satisfaction’s guaranteed.

‘Cause that’s the system that we’ve built;
We build these fences made of guilt.
We pride ourselves on all our structure
and then we just forget each other.
So how, then, can we learn or grow,
if we can’t see that we don’t know?

We choke on what we tell ourselves,
So we build more. This time it’s shelves.
A place to place our sticky dreams
and stuff away what our soul screams.
‘Cause longings don’t fit in the mold
or mesh with what we’ve all been told.

And then, with sticky dreams aside,
I get to rest, enjoy the ride.
That is until a moment’s passed,
for then I’ll race or I’ll be last
(last at what, I’m not quite sure;
we all just race toward cheap allure).

We know the rules, they’re strict and plain.
But does anybody know my name?
The system’s safe, the path is clear.
Then why to I feel mounting fear?
It doesn’t matter. Run the race.
For heaven’s sake, just keep the pace!

But what if where this clear path leads
is nowhere that I want to be?
Living in a box for life
may succeed to block out strife,
but what’s the point of being here
if we can never shed a tear?

So maybe I was wrong to think
that fences make my problems shrink.
I’ve realized and won’t forget
that sticky dreams don’t fit on shelves.
They belong outside of desperate boxes
where they can pull us, where they can stretch us,
torture us in time.

no fence equals no safety net
no safety net means scars
but when the crimson hands of dawn
pet our faces and when the pain in someone else’s eye
cuts through to our heart, we remember, then, that pain will heal
at least we took the time to feel