Buried Pieces

There is no use in saying more

To save the wicked and the poor

A mind full of words yet to spill out

Memories that past have you riddled with doubt

Those old broken pieces cut away

Wounded and scarred, oh so sore

The new seasons will come and go

With new loves and winds and fields of snow

No one sees those old buried pieces

Covered in layers of dust and blood

It does no good to talk about it, no

These old shards will never be done

The march goes on and the spring will show

All the buried pieces that you thought only you could see

In all your ignorance, in all your fake bliss

There is no use in saying more

There is a use in saying you’re sore

Our words get lost, but our motives can be clear

Along the way you thought you had to bare this fear

Your fragile buried pieces are not yours alone

Your holes left behind are not the first to be dug

You won’t be the last, these dangerous shards must be shone

There is no use in saying more if no one will listen

If you are willing to find the buried pieces of others

Your buried pieces can find a home

Within you. A wounded fiend

Not willing to do anything

There is no use in saying more

Put your oxygen mask on before they do

Or save everyone on the plane but you?

Old buried pieces uncovered by the warmth of growth

Breaching the unknown, forced to change the oath

You were never safe in the snow, and you were a fool to think so

I was a fool to think

There is no use in saying more

Who would have let me know I was wicked and poor?

I don’t care if I’m a fiend

I’m tired of the buried pieces haunting me

There is no use in saying more.