Tourist

Outside your burning house
Where I tried to douse
All the flames with tears
I carried all my fears
In a holy bucket,
Took it like I’d sucked up
All my fleshy pride,
Tried my best to hide
All my nightmare sides,
All the lightening tides,
Smells of pesticides,
Dreams of suicide,
Such a shame
That I walked it like I talked it,
Should have just gone
And bought it like a tourist.

Inside a waiting cell,
Brain a burning hell,
Smells of petrol
As I tell on those
Who should have
Stayed inside the shadows,
Should have flown like sparrows,
In the blackened sky,
Dying all the time,
Life is colour blind
If you read the signs,
Telling you your spine
Is the holy shrine,
For all the people praying,
“Save me ‘cause I’m awkward”,
Talked it, walked it,
Then I bought it like a tourist.

Poetry.net