Rocks (Poetry)

Hard
Like the heads of those who collect them
Statues are built
By the fools who correct them

Money is collected
For dreams of power
As rocks are melted
To speed up the hour

It won't hold your hand
But it will weaken your teeth
You never stopped to think
About the reasoning beneath
All of the times you've tried
Yet you let yourself slip back again
Dodging the back of the hand
With no need to come back again

But it happens
And you flip back to the old tune

Voicing opinions

Reality never seemed to matter before
Tin foil and butane
Walking through the same old doors
Before you can turn back
Your face hits the floor

No more
No More
Coming back as you did before
Your eyes look tired
Your voice sounds sore

Give it up
Close the door
No more
No More