Soaking in the pool of my own silence The bottled anger soon to explode Wishing without wanting for The scars to just appear So no to commit the act My sin. Three familiar hands move Counting without letting on they know The time of which is left The ultimate secret lies Within and contrained by Thee familiar hands. The cork in my bottle For which I hide my emotions Knowingly keeping Rotting my soul For the cork to fail And the relief of release But, the cork, the material Unbreakable, Unmaskable Fear. Relief so hard to find So easy to accomplish Freedom likes the bird Wings to aid its flight My wings were a Honda To the end of night To fly like a bird To be unbelievabley free Such relief I've lost. Slight dampening with water A smooth foam flows Dipping for the next stroke Removing the unwanted Normal and precision A shaver Your best friend. He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.