Palms Read - Protest the Hero

I am a legacy of forgotton dreams...
and I just want to find myself again.
If we will never answer to where we came from,
but only how we got here,
then I must describe to you the painful waters of dark mirth which birthed me,
the paint that peeled from my skin,
the blackest oil,
crude and still with its petroleum stamping value to nature,
which sloughed off in globs of self-hatred from the walls of my lungs,
where she breathed into me,
my personal porcelain God-dess,
with her smoker's breath
and cigarrette regrets,
where it left its obsidian fingerprints on my arms
like starless bruises;
If I must tell you how I got here,
then I'd reopen the wounds at the soles and heels of my broken feet and relive the agony of my million-mile march -
each step was a bloody footprint on a birth certificate,
and my hands itched to fling myself into the sky
and land upside down,
palms supporting my trek across the clouds -
because back then,
I had no wings to propel me to the heavens.
So don't ask me where I came from,
because the circumstances from which arose the severing of my mother's umbilical chord
and the noose around my father's neck
do not define what I have become -
I can only answer you
if you ask me how I got here...
I can only tell you the bare facts
and bitterness
of my skeletons and ghosts -
the ones that wreak havoc
and permeate the stench of what my death would have looked and sounded like -
click, BOOM -
somewhere on the paths I have traversed;
yet they fail to grasp the red dirt riverbed upon which I now stand
and leap
and run along
for the future up ahead is calling me like the sunrise
I wouldn't bare to lose.
Leave me to my dawns,
and save your questioning
for later.