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.

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.



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.

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?