Painful Fantasy

How can you fight so many fights at one time?

I don't.

But... when I see you...

You don't... you don't really see me.
You see with your eyes, and that's nice and all, but take a deeper look.

What do you mean?

I don't fight all of these fights.
Some of them, I put away on the back burner.
Some of them, I quit.
Some of them, I smash instantly.
I'm not always fighting.
I'm just good at putting up my fists.


I'm gonna burn my money,
Because I wouldn't feel good with it otherwise.

I speak too much,
Too much about what I want to do.

And then I do nothing.
And then I talk some more.

I'm always falling for the trap
Known as the dream.

I'm never moving, never growing,
Never experiencing what is real.

I prefer my own world,
Where everything happens for me.

With me, by me, instantly.
No disappointment.

Except for the fact
That it's only an idea.

And when I return to reality,
The dreams hurt more.

I don't understand this planet
And its inhabitants.

I don't understand why we chase dreams,
And let what's really there slip away.

I don't understand why shit happens to good people
And bad people get away with murder.

Hearts are broken every day
And no one is around to do their time.

The shell is an interesting piece of material,
Hard on the outside,
Intimidating in some cases,
But in many cases,
That shell is simply the protection
Necessary because the inside is soft
And vulnerable.

And some people see the shell
And they don't even bother it.

And some people see the shell
And they crack it open,
Just to exploit the insides.

And some people see the shell,
And they work it open
So that they can appreciate what's inside,
It's softness, it's tenderness.

But the latter is rare,
And the shell seeks the latter,
But constantly mistakes it for the poacher,
And constantly gets hurt,

All because of a dream.