Beneath this thick perspiring skin there is a pulse that
beats through my heart.
For the weak, for the weary, and for the heartless

And despite the anger that grows and hatred I so easily
show.
There is a part of me that breathes life into the idea

that everyone has a piece of love that lives inside of
them.
A figure starved, begging to be fed.

A figure too often left for dead.
We live our days with instinct as guidance.
A presiding aspect that stirs inside of us.

We put to shame the gift of our minds as our hearts
decline.
Open your eyes to $#&@ing see, were the same from you to

me.
A human being with a heart and passion, befriended by
terror

the evil distraction.
It may not always show but from the chest it's said,
I live to believe that we are not yet dead.

Oh god please believe we are not yet dead.