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Description
A Spoken Word Piece about Illegal, Politically Related and War Related Hostages and Detaines
and a Day In Their Life.
A Collaboration by Epileptic Gibbon and dwwave
All Lyrics and Spoken Word by Ian Fairholm of
Cheltenham, England
Music/Sound by dwwave
and a Day In Their Life.
A Collaboration by Epileptic Gibbon and dwwave
All Lyrics and Spoken Word by Ian Fairholm of
Cheltenham, England
Music/Sound by dwwave
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Lyrics
What am I doing here?
You haven't spoken to me in weeks.
You curse me.
Spit on me.
Ridicule me.
But don't speak to me.
Maybe you wouldn't know how.
I don't think you're a human being.
What am I doing here?
What are you doing to me?
Do I offend you?
Did I wound you?
How could I?
I don't even know you.
You certainly don't know me.
Or own me.
Or zone me.
Or dethrone me.
What are you doing to me?
Why are you hurting me?
Do you even know who you are?
Do you care enough to think that you might be?
Is hurt a word in your dictionary?
Or just some abstract notion that you've heard others talk about?
I don't think you know pain.
Or if you ever did, it was long ago.
In another life. But not mine.
Why are you hurting me?
Why are you leaving me?
Your presence has been the most constant in my current life.
I hate you.
But without you to hate, I don't know what I am.
You're trying to take even that from me.
And there's nothing else left to take.
Dignity walked out months ago.
Pride left along with it.
Now all I have left is my hate, and the object of that hate.
Why are you leaving me?
Why are you opening the door?
Does that make everything allright?
Is sorry really sufficient?
Or just another word you use without meaning it,
Or understand it.
You haven't changed.
Or been rearranged.
But you took the pieces of my life, broke them up.
And now you're returning them to me like they're some kind of gift.
Why are you opening the door?
You haven't spoken to me in weeks.
You curse me.
Spit on me.
Ridicule me.
But don't speak to me.
Maybe you wouldn't know how.
I don't think you're a human being.
What am I doing here?
What are you doing to me?
Do I offend you?
Did I wound you?
How could I?
I don't even know you.
You certainly don't know me.
Or own me.
Or zone me.
Or dethrone me.
What are you doing to me?
Why are you hurting me?
Do you even know who you are?
Do you care enough to think that you might be?
Is hurt a word in your dictionary?
Or just some abstract notion that you've heard others talk about?
I don't think you know pain.
Or if you ever did, it was long ago.
In another life. But not mine.
Why are you hurting me?
Why are you leaving me?
Your presence has been the most constant in my current life.
I hate you.
But without you to hate, I don't know what I am.
You're trying to take even that from me.
And there's nothing else left to take.
Dignity walked out months ago.
Pride left along with it.
Now all I have left is my hate, and the object of that hate.
Why are you leaving me?
Why are you opening the door?
Does that make everything allright?
Is sorry really sufficient?
Or just another word you use without meaning it,
Or understand it.
You haven't changed.
Or been rearranged.
But you took the pieces of my life, broke them up.
And now you're returning them to me like they're some kind of gift.
Why are you opening the door?


















bronco
Hey, you guys are getting quite good at this type of piece. Epi - your
words are very artistic but profound at the same time. What was fun
was to listen first and try to comprehend where you were coming from
with these words and then see if you had written anything in the
description. I have to tell you that I came up with several different
scenarios which shows once again how art speaks to each of us
differently. At first I thought you were writing about a street person.
One of those inivisible fellows with the cardboard sign. Then I thought
it might be the breakup of a relationship . . then, extreme perhaps, but
maybe a clinically paranoid person. When I read where you were aiming
it, it of course made perfect sense from that angle also.
David, sweet little piano. Accented the words beautifully. I could
imagine this was a poetry read at a coffehouse and there was a live
piano acompaniment. I should have caught the war reference from the
gunfire at first with the sirens but the sad fact is that could be one of
our major cities with the gangs trying to kill each other. Not to say it
wasn't well done. Again, I consider it to be a bonus that this piece
could be taken so many different ways.
Good work, compassion is not dead and there is still hope!