my heart is peeling, cracking
you’ve taken a penknife to the backing
i don’t think everyone is tracking
that i am a scarecrow on fire
i have been a professional liar
selling smoke and mirrors
wondering can the angels hear us
haunting their angles?
spaghetti junction versifying tangles
i would be a tv screen
never a microphone
or a book on its own
an engaged tone
no generic clone
i might be a small stone
i might be a broken mirror
can i say it any clearer?
in the rearview mirror appearing nearer
i could be a summer
i won’t be a mummer
will not be a number
don’t wish to be number
don’t wish to me numb
greater than the sum
stopping being a slum
not thinking of myself as scum
instead working on being a sun