Keep the Faith
I am
It wasn’t his fault…
That’s all they had to know.
It wasn’t his fault…
Why everything just fell apart.
He didn’t see it coming- he wasn’t even looking for it- the storm that would take away everything he worked for in a single gust of wind. He had no time to prepare. No time to board up the windows of his soul, cover the cracks in his sanity, or even warn the people closes to him. No time for one last laugh or smile; for one more fan to dub him the hero. No time for anything.
It came with all the fury and hatred and rage of a thousand angry gods, and sought to do nothing but harm him- only him. The rain and the lightening didn’t drench the others, or shock them to their last heartbeat. Only him. He was in the front, the wall to protect his friends- his fans- and absorb all the debris that was thrown at him- them. He thought he was strong enough to handle the onslaught of unprovoked shit that was thrown at him from those he loved most- those who he relied on most.
That was his fault.
Thinking he could handle it all.
He was only one man. Man. Not God. Not even the devil- though they would beg to differ. He was a man who struggled and bled and suffered for them; opened himself up and poured his guts for them. He left himself open for them to pick on the rotting guts after the storm had passed- in hopes that whatever strength he had left could be transferred to them.
He died. He was reborn. Into a zombie that hid his emotions behind glasses in hopes that no one could see the pain that raged inside him every night, at every show, at every meeting. But he could block out the rays of hatred, but he couldn’t silence the noise. Their voices raged war in his brain; bouncing off the fragile walls that kept his mine together. Cutting him. Blood running down his pale, hairless, arm. Bright. Unforgiving.
And soon, he began to listen to those words. Drinker. Womanizer. Cokewhore. Faggot. Failure. He realized how familiar the words sounded against his ears, and how easy they rolled off his tongue, to the floor, where they shattered and cut his body even more. Even more until he was nothing but a bloody boy with little cuts running up and down his body. He would stare at himself in the mirrors for hours. Stare at the words on his body. Wonder why they were just old scars re-opened.
Worse of all…he began to believe in those words and the false truths laced within them. He began to believe he was all those things that he took so long to overcome. He began to believe…and that was the first sign. The sign of the downfall. The end.
That was it. That was all he could do. Was fall until his body was crushed on the floor. He would be cleaned off, rubbed out, forgotten.
This he believed in. It was all he allowed him to know. His life was a disposable as the CDs he spilled his life on. And knowing this, he would stare out the closed, dirty, window; his hazel eyes vacant and dead. And with a tired voice say…
“I am…”
That’s all they had to know.
It wasn’t his fault…
Why everything just fell apart.
He didn’t see it coming- he wasn’t even looking for it- the storm that would take away everything he worked for in a single gust of wind. He had no time to prepare. No time to board up the windows of his soul, cover the cracks in his sanity, or even warn the people closes to him. No time for one last laugh or smile; for one more fan to dub him the hero. No time for anything.
It came with all the fury and hatred and rage of a thousand angry gods, and sought to do nothing but harm him- only him. The rain and the lightening didn’t drench the others, or shock them to their last heartbeat. Only him. He was in the front, the wall to protect his friends- his fans- and absorb all the debris that was thrown at him- them. He thought he was strong enough to handle the onslaught of unprovoked shit that was thrown at him from those he loved most- those who he relied on most.
That was his fault.
Thinking he could handle it all.
He was only one man. Man. Not God. Not even the devil- though they would beg to differ. He was a man who struggled and bled and suffered for them; opened himself up and poured his guts for them. He left himself open for them to pick on the rotting guts after the storm had passed- in hopes that whatever strength he had left could be transferred to them.
He died. He was reborn. Into a zombie that hid his emotions behind glasses in hopes that no one could see the pain that raged inside him every night, at every show, at every meeting. But he could block out the rays of hatred, but he couldn’t silence the noise. Their voices raged war in his brain; bouncing off the fragile walls that kept his mine together. Cutting him. Blood running down his pale, hairless, arm. Bright. Unforgiving.
And soon, he began to listen to those words. Drinker. Womanizer. Cokewhore. Faggot. Failure. He realized how familiar the words sounded against his ears, and how easy they rolled off his tongue, to the floor, where they shattered and cut his body even more. Even more until he was nothing but a bloody boy with little cuts running up and down his body. He would stare at himself in the mirrors for hours. Stare at the words on his body. Wonder why they were just old scars re-opened.
Worse of all…he began to believe in those words and the false truths laced within them. He began to believe he was all those things that he took so long to overcome. He began to believe…and that was the first sign. The sign of the downfall. The end.
That was it. That was all he could do. Was fall until his body was crushed on the floor. He would be cleaned off, rubbed out, forgotten.
This he believed in. It was all he allowed him to know. His life was a disposable as the CDs he spilled his life on. And knowing this, he would stare out the closed, dirty, window; his hazel eyes vacant and dead. And with a tired voice say…
“I am…”