So I've noticed through trial and error
That juggling just leads me to failure
My hands are not equipped to cycle and grip
And the objects of my desire just go sail, sir.
He can juggle, that man, I have seen him
In the forest of the forsaken
His mouth and his eyes are wizened by time
But his mechanic gaze is painstaken.
So I conclude from studies and findings
That issues of the heart and mind seem
To bury us all under bruises and scars
Unless we watch from afar like in a dream.
Standing alone, juggling it all in harmony
Is not worth the annon-imity.
Sealing yourself away for days, in a perfect, cold haze.
Is untying the strings of our findings.
Either we're buried or shoveling
Never ending and bubbling
With hopes and dreams, to be crushed it seems
But I'm blossoming, and these hands are juggling.
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