
Date of issue: 19.08.2009
Song language: English
To This Day |
When I was a kid |
I used to think that pork chops and karate chops were the same thing |
I thought they were both pork chops |
My grandmother thought it was cute |
So she let me keep doing it |
Because you know, they were my favorite |
It wasn’t a big deal |
Until I was seven years old |
And a bad fall caused me to bruise my upper arm and shoulder rather severely |
I didn’t wana tell my grandmother what happened |
Because I was afraid I would get in trouble |
Because I was playing somewhere I shouldn’t have been |
One day in gym class the teacher notices the bruise |
And I was sent to the principals office |
Not long after that I ended up in another small room |
With a really nice lady who asked me all sorts of questions about my life at |
home |
I saw no reason to lie |
It was pretty good as fas as i was concerned |
So I told her, whenever I’m sad my grandmother gives me karate chops |
This lead to a full scale investigation |
And I was removed from my grandparents house for three days |
And then returned when they finally asked me how I got the bruises |
News of this silly little story eventually spread through the school |
And when the students finally caught wind of it |
I earned my first name |
Pork Chop |
To this day I fucking hate pork chops |
I’m not the only kid |
Who grew up this way |
Surrounded by people who used to say |
That rhyme about sticks and stones |
As if broken bones |
Hurt more than the names we got called |
And we got called them all |
So we grew up believing no one |
Would ever fall in love with us |
That we’d be lonely forever |
That we’d never meet someone |
To make us feel like the sun |
Was something they built for us |
In their tool shed |
So broken heart strings bled the blues |
As we tried to empty ourselves |
So we would feel nothing |
Don’t tell me that hurts less than a broken bone |
That an ingrown life |
Is something surgeons can cut away |
That there’s no way for it to metastasize |
It does |
She was eight years old |
Our first day of grade three |
When she got called ugly |
We both got moved to the back of the class |
So we would stop getting bombarded by spit balls |
But the school halls were a battleground |
We found ourselves outnumbered day after day |
We used to stay inside for recess |
Because outside was worse |
Outside we’d have to rehearse running away |
Or learn to stay still like statues giving no clues that we were there |
In grade five they taped a sign to the front of her desk |
That read |
«Beware Of Dog» |
To this day despite a loving husband |
She doesn’t think she’s beautiful |
Because of a birthmark |
That takes up a little less than half of her face |
Kids used to say she looks like a wrong answer |
That someone tried to erase |
But couldn’t quite get the job done |
And they’ll never understand |
That she’s raising two kids |
Whose definition of beauty |
Begins with the word mom |
Because they see her heart |
Before they see her skin |
Because she’s only ever always been amazing |
He |
Was a broken branch |
Grafted onto a different family tree |
Adopted |
But not because his parents opted for a different destiny |
He was three when he became a mixed drink |
Of one part left alone |
And two parts tragedy |
Started therapy in 8th grade |
Had a personality made up of tests and pills |
Lived like the uphills were mountains |
And the downhills were cliffs |
Four fifths suicidal |
A tidal wave of anti depressants |
And an adolescence of being called popper |
One part because of the pills |
And ninety nine parts because of the cruelty |
He tried to kill himself in grade ten |
When a kid who could still go home to mom and dad |
Had the audacity to tell him «get over it» |
As if depression is something that can be remedied |
By any of the contents found in a first aid kit |
To this day he is a stick of TNT lift from both ends |
Could describe you in detail the way the sky bends |
In the moments before it’s about to fall |
And despite an army of friends |
Who all call him an inspiration |
He remains a conversation piece between people |
Who can’t understand |
That sometimes becoming drug free |
Has less to do with addiction |
And more to do with sanity |
We weren’t the only kids who grew up this way |
To this day kids are still being called names |
The classics were |
«Hey stupid» |
«Hey spaz» |
Seems like every school has an arsenal of names |
Getting updated every year |
And if a kid breaks in a school |
And no one around chooses to hear |
Do they make a sound? |
Are they just the background noise |
Of a soundtrack stuck on repeat |
When people say things like |
Kids can be cruel? |
Every school was a big top circus tent |
And the pecking order went |
From acrobats to lion tamers |
From clowns to carnies |
All of these were miles ahead of who we were |
We were freaks |
Lobster claw boys and bearded ladies |
Oddities |
Juggling depression and loneliness playing solitaire spin the bottle |
Trying to kiss the wounded parts of ourselves and heal |
But at night |
While the others slept |
We kept walking the tightrope |
It was practice |
And yeah |
Some of us fell |
But I wanna tell them |
That all of this |
Is just debris |
Leftover when we finally decide to smash all the things we thought |
We used to be |
And if you can’t see anything beautiful about yourself |
Get a better mirror |
Look a little closer |
Stare a little longer |
Because there’s something inside you |
That made you keep trying |
Despite everyone who told you to quit |
You built a cast around your broken heart |
And signed it yourself |
You signed it |
«They were wrong» |
Because maybe you didn’t belong to a group or a click |
Maybe they decided to pick you last for basketball or everything |
Maybe you used to bring bruises and broken teeth |
To show and tell but never told |
Because how can you hold your ground |
If everyone around you wants to better you beneath it |
You have to believe that they were wrong |
They have to be wrong |
Why else we’d still be here? |
We grew up learning to cheer on the underdog |
Because we see ourselves in them |
We stem from a root planted in the belief |
That we are not what we were called |
We are not abandoned cars stalled out and Sitting empty on some highway |
And if in some way we are |
Don’t worry |
We only got out to walk and get gas |
We are graduating members from the class of |
we made it |
Not the faded echoes of voices crying out |
Names will never hurt me |
Of course |
They did |
But our lives will only ever always |
Continue to be |
A balancing act |
That has less to do with pain |
And more to do with beauty |
Name | Year |
---|---|
A Letter to Remind Myself Who I Am | 2014 |
Specials | 2014 |
The Student | 2014 |
Tarot | 2014 |
Favourite | 2014 |
Time Difference | 2014 |