these are the things
these are my songs, they were not written nor sung for you. this table was prepared for me, this feast is not yours, not these plates, not this china. this is mine, everything here, i will not share. these clothes were altered for me, leaving you naked, torn and tattered, lying in the gutter. this dirt is ours, but i will take the recognition, the self-congratulations is not mine, you can have that. but this love is mine, this heart bleeds for me, it is indifferent towards you. these are the things that have been prepared for me, these are the things that are mine, that i will keep locked away, these are the things. you can have your bed and fill it too. i will take these sheets and wash them clean and stain them once again, this is mine, this work of words, in fact, is mine. no one else mined these words from my mind except these fingers that interpret my thoughts into electronic characters, another one not finished, but still, it's mine, these things are mine. this music is mine, you can't listen in.