BONUS: Dear Machine. Hate, The Cog (Ode of the Cog, Non-Fiction Mix)

They say that time heals all things
They say you can always forget
But the smiles and the tears across the years
They twist my heartstrings yet

She's beautiful

I hit a crossroads recently, when I had my first royalties pay
Four thousand dollars for the month of March
Paid out in the month of May
And as I reached it, I remembered
I heard the voices of my friends, my parents, my teachers say
"Enjoy the fun while it lasts
You'll have to get on the treadmill one day"

And yes, I know
I get it
That is just the world in which we live
The amount we receive in return
Rarely justifies what we give
But for the first time, maybe ever
I see a path I want to walk
A path on which I can prove to myself
That I'm not all talk

Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clement's
One day you'll start walking and you won't stop till mourning

I'll admit it, I'm fucking scared
It's a fickle game to play
The scope just keeps tightening on what I do
And what I think, and what I say
But for every fear that I have
Two more dreams come to settle its score
Now all I need to do is step through that door

So I've taken two weeks off
With no intention of going back
But as I did, I felt the gold in my eyes
Start fading down to black
I think it's doubt?
Or shame?
Maybe guilt?
Or a combination of it all?
Why is it that once I'm finally on-course
I get the overwhelming urge to stall?

Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clement's
You owe me five farthings, say the bells of St. Martin's
When will you pay me? Say the bells of St. Bailey's
When time runs its course, says the voice of remorse

But God knows you'll fail
And end up fleeing with tucked tail

The black behind my eyes makes its way to my stomach
As the pit begins its wail

Here comes a candle to light you to bed
And here comes a chopper to chop off your head!

But I am not done yet
You know perfectly well what is the matter with you
Just a footnote in everyone else's psyche
You are mentally deranged
Sick of being the mean

How many fingers am I holding up, Winston?
Four
No. How many fingers, please?
Four... Four! What else could I say?

Room 101

Under the spreading chestnut tree
There we sit, both you and me
Rooted underneath this old machine
The chestnut toils. The chestnut breathes
The chestnut quiets. The system groans
The chestnut, tired, heads back on home
Too weary to think. Time, too limited to try
The chestnut repeats till it dies

But perhaps with enough time
And strength, and luck, and zeal
I might just prove that a chestnut can be free
A life spent writing rhymes and expressing the things I feel
Sounds pretty damn appealing to me

Each tick of the metronome, each chime
Each beat, each chord, each spiel
Is but one further disconnection from this tree
So it may kill me in the process to do this full-time
But without, I may never heal
I may yet die poor
But I will die mean
Please
Please
Please
Please

Please forgive me for being vain
But there's so much more that I want to say
This pit that's been growing inside
Is leading me astray
It may not last
And as time flows past
I may just regret this trade
But I offer you my resignation
And I offer to them this tirade

So fuck you
Oh, I quit
I never opted in to this game
So no
Fuck you
I forfeit
I'll die as I am
A weak, small man
Before I surrender to your abyss
I may well yet crash and burn
But for now, just let me have this

They can torture you
They can make you say anything
But they can't make you believe it
They can't get inside you

They can't get to your heart