It's a piece of what we are.

Whether shard, scar, or fresh blood trail
the scale of the impact can't be ignored.
The wild fenced in by their inhibitions,
the picture chasers shaping bodies to score,
the mamas, the poppas, the tradition
of defining a life by those we spend alongside,
are all shaped by the damaging embrace
that shatters the cubicles of systemic isolation.

We name it a battefield, call it the answer,
make it the reason, and claim it's an open door.
All those songs and more will fail to describe.
We are blind grasping at textures,
speaking only of what our arms reach.
Though we strive to teach

so that we might share
so that we can scare
so destiny might give relief
when it so thoroughly fucked thee
and we wish that our pain
might never be shared

but that mercy always comes with a cost
and it's frequently autonomy
not only to the other
but to a radiating core vital as ligaments
that we could feel but we worked to forget

its shape. My take? A quake.
A bomb. A half learned song.
A home with gas but no lights on.
A fractured gem of knowledge learned in the womb.
A class taken in college that no one ever aces.

But the grave insight of this day and night struggle
ain't fading right so we gotta play the game and fight
for our finish! Carve flesh for dinner. Wash our worst
parts and learn respect so we giving want we want
to every Flowey and Toriel. Cast divining spells.
Learn the mistakes others fell. Treat yourself great.
Live your best well. Explore the cage of your brain.
Bars built strong to keep passive tastes,
but your drive to share a bed
don't end in reproductive haste.

You gotta rock the clock
and stop the mob,
break popul' bond,
take scars along
the way don't move on
from the dream of saving
another soul cause
your great will stand tall
when you rise above
the chatter of this doom
that curses louder
when they see someone's dream
making smiles from their screams.

There's a lot to glom,
a whole life to live.
We were taught to dream for stars
but fantasy roms are sick,
full of lines abusers mimic
to trick a conditioned brain
into thinking this shit wins.

But empathy is beyond sympathy,
it's not a song learned but a practice
in need of more practitioners.
Their heart's blessing is as fake
as the comp-like dancing on a post.

We're all fighting this comp-life,
whether queer or straight as a knife.
We're fed man and woman is right
along with a set of rules that should be denied.
Your best dream ain't picture perfect.
It's a little of sleaze and a makes you nervous.
You're gonna need to risk shame
if you want a brain beyond pain.
Some die without knowing
the pleasure of fetish satisfied.

Don't go running from that lust inside, take it out and put that trust to work.
Afraid of romance? Get that tickle. Laugh at every attack and share your heart's trickle.
Alone again? Take that phone and tap. Call those friends you know are sad.
From one hug to another. Bring out the best of your mom while she's still with you.
Dedicate yourself to be the best of what you are, not their mirror, but the one with scars.
Have faith that your grace will set the stage for life incomplete but a way to stay sane.
And if you're weird get weirder. Find the peeps who'll shout insults as greeting.
Even in your darkest days, there's still yourself, the ghost the plays in civilization's jail.

So cultivate lust, risk romance,
forge philia, give storge a chance.
Spend agape until pragma is returned.
Play ludus like a chorus,
your philautia is earned.

No matter what choice you've got,
play the beat while you're hot.
Don't give in to solitary spend
live a life with love until the end.