They talk.

[Ironic Infidel In England]

They talk to me all the time,
but I know not what they said,
their actions seem to be like mime,
do I appear to them as dead?

They see but part of me, myself,
the part that I reaveal,
the parts that I leave on the shelf,
are the ones they never feel.

If they knew what I was truly like,
how I think and how I am,
they'd be coming at me with all their spikes,
their claws out, slashing, "scram!"

So I cower in my shelter,
my arms above my head,
they go past, helter skelter,
I know not what they said.

\.\. Ironic Infidel././

[Bobby]

That's good.

[Ironic Infidel In England]

Thank you. Here's another:

If I could drift a thousand miles,
away from this cruel shore,
I certainly would stay there,
for now and ever more.

If I could escape the madness,
the destruction that is me,
I would with little sadness,
but that will never be.

I feel myself inside my mind,
a bat inside a cage,
tortured, I respond in kind,
doomed to stay here for an age.

But when my time I've had to bide,
my wasted life all told,
will they release my tortured hide,
into a land of gold?

[dannyley]

theyr'e really good, how have u been? ps im bak