Have you ever been tolerated too much to be loved?
Have you ever been admired much to be helped?
It’s easy for you to put up with this-
Your touch is a friendly but fare thee well kiss,
a smiling from over the edge of the abyss-
But it’s killing me softly, this song from black dove.
Must you leave me here to hate myself?

Was it easier to tell me that you understand my lies
than to say you understand enough to get why I would die
for these lies that are “easy”. Is ease easier than freely?
What of peacefully? Truthfully? Unshackled or youthfully?
Have you ever come across these things? Did you stop and stare?
Or if they’re not that novel to you, would you care to share?
Do you fear what I would say? Do you fear what they would do?
Do you fear to feel the deep involvement it’d require of you?
Do you dare to fear the failure of your so-believed truth?

My first grade teacher asked us, “Class, what do you want to be?”
Not a single soul said, “This is how I will be seen-
Call me ‘Sum Of Untruths’, call me ‘Product Of Abuse’
Call me ‘Never Quite Right’, or ‘Eternally Confused’,
‘Stuck in this tollbooth,
watching all the world drive by,
tossing me their nickels, throwing carefree high fives.'”
Is human life a slide to death, or do you live now walking free?
Am I a human too? Could your hope touch even me?

Have you ever been tolerated too much to be loved?
Have you ever been accepted too much to be helped?
It’s easy for you to put up with this-
Your touch is a friendly but fare thee well kiss,
A smiling from over the edge of the abyss-
But it’s killing me softly, this song from black dove.
Must you leave me here to hate myself?

They don’t told me that I needn’t change.
Was I intended for this pain? Can I never rearrange?
They said there was no problem to be fixed within my life.
So it it just me, myself, my soul that leads to all this strife?

You tell me that you see, and you say you understand.
Come and tell me when you see enough to see I need a hand.
I don’t want to hear you saying what I tell myself all day.
I’m coming to you, dying for new
things that you could say.
Your optimism makes these empty pitchers sound divine.
Is that easier than faith that turns this water into wine?
I’m drowning here; I’m cursed by water intoxication.
“A fatal disturbance” is its doctor definition.
They say it’s poisoning, then they label it depletion.
The doctors try and fix it as if they have found a reason
to help their patients live.
Have you got any to give?

Have you ever been tolerated too much to be loved?
Have you ever been accepted too much to be helped?
It’s easy for you to put up with this-
Your touch is a friendly but fare thee well kiss,
a smiling from over the edge of the abyss.
But it’s killing me softly, this song from black dove.
Must you leave me here to hate myself?