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.
The time will come to break the chisel
that hacked away our trust.
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.
As you approach, I�ll always freeze right where I�m standing, heart beating faster under the cold,
hard clay that has become my skin.
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.
The time will come to break the chisel that hacked away our trust.
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?