Burn The Bridges, Burn Them Down

 

Here I sit nestled in my artist world 
And what do I hear running through my mind
These words of advice
I've come to despise 

"Don't burn your bridges, son." 

What a terrible way 
To view the world I thought
From the mouth of someone
Who abuses creators of art 

Do I worry about
My every word
Action and thought
Do I conform and hold all that I am 
Inside and hope that it won't haunt 
Me when darkness grins
And all that I love succumbs to death 
Do I then pretend that all that I am 
Was just a silly dream 

Perhaps, that's how you grew so mean.

And what of these bridges 
We so solemnly protect 
Will they ever lead us near our desired end
And isn't that troll still guarding the entrance 

Made of rotted rails and prickly nailed planks 
Foundations of flimsy frail and fragile frames 
A burden no one need endure 
But you did
So why now sir 
Would you ever recommend this road
I wonder 

I attempted to cross such a pass once 
Every wretched step
Was one too much 
As I gasped and choked 
And trudged like the dead
I clawed to escape the awful dread 

My feet from the rusty spikes they bled 
As gloom crept into my heart 
And peace fled 

The silence screamed as the bit sunk deep 
The blinders scorned 
And sadness creeped
The days seemed like one horrible refrain 
All I could think was

Run you fucking idiot
Ignite your feet 

So I turned and ran 
With all that I had 
Until my lungs burned 
And my legs dragged 

'Til my heart screamed 

And my breath gasped

When I could bare no more 
And was free from the bridge’s boards 
Only then did I then pause 
To face the horror 

Catching my breath 
Clutching my thighs 
I stared at the site
That had caused my flight 
So crudely made
It appeared so helpless 

Innocent 

Sinking in its sullied dilapidated haze 
Why had it caused my panicked state 
So I decided to burn it to the ground
No one needs that fucking road to go down 

How relieved I was to watch it fall to flame 
Perhaps I shall do this every fucking day 
For I did not build it 
Nor want it 
Nor care for its cage 
But relieved I was 
By all the pretty colors
Its flames made. 


In music we trust, 
Michael

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