The Static Masses

Even when I was younger

I could feel your slimy sculptor�s hands shaping every uneven feature of my body after your fantasies.

Forever crafted to a silent

excessive perfection.

Fingers digging out all visible flaws,

yet you still aren�t satisfied with your work.

I�ll never breathe or blink or look you in the eye.

I�ll never show a single sign that I�m alive.

The time will come to break the chisel

that hacked away our trust.

I�ll never speak or think or spit straight in your eye. I�ll never show a single sign I can defy.

You need to understand it�s what you�ve done to all of us.

As you approach, I�ll always freeze right where I�m standing, heart beating faster under the cold,

hard clay that has become my skin.

It�s buried so deep,

you�d never know it was there. But you�re seeking something.

I can see it when you examine my every feature for something more than what you�ve designed.

I�ll never breathe or blink or look you in the eye.

I�ll never show a single sign that I�m alive.

The time will come to break the chisel that hacked away our trust.

I�ll never speak or think or spit straight in your eye. I�ll never show a single sign I can defy.

You need to understand it�s what you�ve done to all of us.

Weighed down by my own heavy splendor, I�m just a statue to pose at your parties, surrounded by a stiff, leering mass groping for a feel of the new old trend.

But what more can I give you besides my rigid presence?